


Seascapes

by Capella (Caprina)



Series: Sea Longing Series [5]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 12:30:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caprina/pseuds/Capella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some years after the War of the Ring, Legolas wishes to learn of the sea.</p><p>Written in the mid 2000's, under the name Capella.  A sequel to 'Call of the Sea' and 'Sea Longing' which plays fast and loose with canon and introduces multiple original characters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the incomparable Elfscribe for being a wonderful beta.

‘It should be a crime,’ thought the prince, ‘to feel aught but joy on a day such as this.’

With a sigh, he turned from the window, with its long, wide view of the glittering sea, and returned to matters at hand. 

Heledir was sitting at the dark wood desk and frowning at the papers before him. 

As he regarded the secretary in silence, Imrahil felt a much missed smile return to his lips. Kingfisher, indeed. No doubt his mother had chosen the name in fondness for the bright-eyed, quick-limbed babe who had brought such colour to her life. She was not to know that her son would grow to be a solidly serious man, ever dependable, but hardly given to the flashes of brilliance characteristic of his namesake. Heledir had worked for the prince for some twenty years; Imrahil was genuinely fond of him and would trust him with his very life, but the sea would turn to liquid gold before the man could ever surprise him.

‘And that is all too true,’ he reflected, ‘of much of my life.’ 

Having read through the last two letters, signed them with a flourish and sent Heledir on his way, the prince at last retired through the heavy door at the rear of the study, into his private rooms. Once inside the bedchamber he shrugged off the stiff brocade robe and stretched slowly and thoroughly, luxuriating in the freedom of the simple cotton garments he wore beneath. Striding to the long mirror, he stood a while regarding his image and pondering the reality of his existence.

The face staring back at him was not that of an old man, although Imrahil had passed his seventy-first birthday some two months before. If asked, a stranger may have said he looked upon a strong healthy man of forty summers, long of limb and uncommonly fair of face. Not many moons ago, the prince would have had to scold himself for the satisfaction the sight in the mirror gave him. These days, however, it seemed to bring him little but frustration.

Long life is held to be a blessing by those who do not possess it, but small joy it brings to the man who must watch, as those he loves grow old and die around him. Since the passing of his beloved Glantathar three years previously, Imrahil could find no pleasure in the prospect of another seventy years of lonely rule, and still lonelier nights in the great royal bed.

His advisors had, in recent weeks, begun to suggest the idea of a second marriage. No doubt they meant well, hoping to soothe the prince’s strange moods now that the official period of mourning was over. Some had gone so far as to mention individual women by name; high born and comely every one, and young enough to remain at his side for maybe half a century, given good health and a modicum of luck. 

Imrahil would have none of them. These young women were mere girls to him, not even so old as his own dear daughter. Other men might envy him the opportunity to take to his heart such youth and beauty, but the prince remained unmoved. He would live another eight decades alone if need be, but no such child would ever replace Glantathar in his affections.

They had married young, and for love, although both his father and hers had approved of the match. With Glantathar he had found passion at first, then latterly great companionship, but always a deep, unwavering affection. Her quiet wisdom had sustained him through the difficult years before Aragorn’s accession, and he had come to rely on her utterly. He had known from the start that he would outlive her, should he be spared a warrior’s death; but the knowledge had done nothing to ease his pain when the consumption finally took her.

The prince sighed once more and turned from the mirror, walking instead to the long window with the seat overlooking the sea.

It had been a glorious afternoon, hot and clear, with all the promise of early summer. Imrahil gazed out across the tumbling cliffs to the turquoise water beyond, and felt his heart quicken in his chest. No doubt young men all over the city had felt the same stirrings today, and had found some excuse to take themselves down to the sea with their friends or sweethearts, as Imrahil himself would once have done. He had little opportunity to seek such pleasures now. 

In spite of himself, the prince often found himself reminiscing fondly about the days before the fall of Sauron: in those hard pressed times he had at least known his purpose. He had ridden at the head of a company of fine knights into the thrill and tumult of battle, and felt the freedom from formality and ritual that he so longed for. In the twelve years of peace since Aragorn became King, his life had changed beyond measure. Although he still rode for sport or hunting as often as he could, and trained several times a week with sword or spear, these days most of his time was spent on tasks which could at best be described as petty administration. 

His family were some comfort to him, but in truth they brought him heartache in equal part. He missed Lothiriel, with her calm wise beauty so like to her mother, and he worried for her as she sat at Eomer’s side in Rohan. Imrahil had no doubt that the young king of the Mark would treat his daughter well, for he clearly worshipped her. But how would she fare in that land of mountain and plain, so far from the sea she had loved all her life? The prince lived daily with the memory of his sister’s tragic end. He knew it had likely owed more to the nature of his brother-in-law than to her physical removal from Dol Amroth, but it haunted him still, and he feared that some echo of it may yet come to torment Lothiriel. 

As for his sons, he could honestly say that Merenin brought him naught but pride and happiness. In the tall, passionate man he saw much of himself, but with a good deal of his mother’s composure to balance his warrior’s speed and fire. He would be a true and loving husband to his new young wife, and one day he would make a fine leader. Celaeren, of course, was a different matter. Imrahil could feel the frown drawing his brows together as he thought of his youngest child. His love and understanding would never be enough to overcome the man’s bitterness at the hand fate had dealt him. Not for the first time, the prince silently cursed his heritage, as he wondered what more he could do to help his son.

A sudden burst of noise from the courtyards below interrupted the train of his thoughts. He could not see the source of the clamour, for his window faced outwards from the castle walls, nor did he recognise any one voice. His stomach clenched, however, as his mind immediately returned to Celaeren. Surely his son had not returned so soon from his visit to their kin in Anfalas? One of Imrahil’s most trusted captains was travelling with him, and the loyal soldier knew how to deal with the younger man’s habits. He was ashamed to admit it even to himself, but the prince had been looking forward to two or three months of peace in the absence of Celaeren’s unsteady temper.

The courtyard became quiet once more and Imrahil allowed himself to relax. Though the tension drained from his body, his readiness to misinterpret the cause of the disturbance left his thoughts unsettled. It was quite apparent that Celaeren’s problem could be pushed to one side no longer. When he returned to Dol Amroth, the prince vowed, father and son would talk openly at last, and seek a solution together.

Gazing out to the horizon, and marvelling at the intensity of the blues mingling there, Imrahil forced himself to clear the anxieties from his mind. The day was too beautiful to waste what was left of it on such despondent musings; he would steal some moments for himself before his duties called him again. He went back in to the study, but quickly returned with a book of poetry in his hand, before settling on the comfortable window seat to enjoy the late afternoon sun.

The prince was not allowed to rest for long. He knew from the hurried footsteps of his manservant that something must be amiss, even before he saw the man’s face. Wearily resigned to the likelihood of unsettling news of his son, he stood and laid his book aside. Neledhen’s look, however, spoke of excitement, not distress.

“My lord,” he said breathlessly, with a hurried bow. “Belgan bids me inform you that a messenger is come from Gondor.”

“Indeed?” Imrahil strode across the chamber and stood by the bed as the other man held the robe wide for his arms. “And is his message so urgent that I must be disturbed at my rest?” 

“I know not what his news may be,” replied Neledhen, “but he has requested an audience with you forthwith.”

Imrahil found himself to be intrigued and not a little cheered by the thought of urgent news from the King. Perhaps Aragorn had some need of him in Minas Tirith, some council or new deed that required his attendance. He could not deny that he would gladly welcome such a summons, and the diversion from his cares that it might offer.

Stepping into the study, he found the steward Belgan before him. The grey haired man nodded respectfully, then looked him in the eye. 

“My lord, a messenger is come from Gondor, with scrolls from the King, and from Ithilien.”

“So Neledhen tells me.” Imrahil replied shortly.

“He will not state his mission, but desires a private audience with you.”

“Does the messenger have a name?” asked the prince, one eyebrow raised.

“None that he would give; he bears the royal emblem, but . . .” the steward seemed lost for words. 

Imrahil narrowed his eyes. “Yes?”  
“He is a . . . strange . . . man.”

The prince laughed suddenly. “Perhaps, Belgan, it is too long since you ventured from this fair city and your mind grows narrow. We have nothing to fear from the men of Gondor. Send him to me.”

The steward bowed and left the room, and Imrahil stood by his desk, glancing idly at the papers there. At the gentle knock on the study door he turned suddenly, and his heart began to beat fast and loud, although he could not have explained why.

“Enter,” he said, firmly.

One look at the tall, slim figure who walked lightly into the study was enough to explain why old Belgan had thought him strange, for his kind had not been seen in Dol Amroth for countless years. Imrahil forgot to breathe for a moment in his surprise, and there was a pause before he found the words of greeting.

“Well met, my friend,” he managed finally. “This is indeed unexpected.”

The figure stepped into the middle of the room and performed an elegant bow, his blond hair falling forward across his shoulders. Then he stood, and met the other’s eyes.

“Prince Imrahil,” said Legolas, in his low, melodic voice, “I have come to learn of the sea.”


	2. Chapter 2

Legolas sat on the terrace with his face turned to the sea, as the lanterns burned low and the last plates were cleared from the table. Imrahil could not begrudge him his apparent inattentiveness; he was clearly entranced by the moonlight playing on the water’s rippled surface, and could hardly tear his eyes away from the sight. Indeed if the prince had been honest, he would have had to admit that he was glad of the elf’s distraction, for it allowed him to gaze surreptitiously at the object of his own fascination. 

Six decades of training in the arts of war had taught Imrahil much about self control. His manner throughout the meal, therefore, had been calm; but in truth his mind was in turmoil. He could only hope that his companion was sufficiently preoccupied with the nearness of the sea for the man’s state to have escaped his notice. 

After the initial shock of the elf’s dramatic entrance, their interview had settled into a more familiar pattern. Formal greetings were exchanged, and enquiries were made as to the health of mutual friends and former comrades. Legolas had produced two scrolls, one from the King and one from Imrahil’s nephew Faramir, prince of Ithilien. The man had put these to one side and summoned Belgan. 

“You are a most welcome guest in my house,” he had told the elf. “I shall have my steward show you to your chambers, where you may refresh yourself before joining me for dinner.”

“Unless, that is,” he had added, as a sudden thought struck him, “you wish to descend to the water straight away?”

Legolas had smiled warmly at him but turned down his offer.

“It seems strange even to me,” he had said slowly, “but now that I am here, I feel no need to hasten to seek the first encounter.”

Imrahil had been unable to identify the nature of the emotion barely held below the surface of the elf’s words. 

“Take your time,” he had responded. “I am honoured by your presence, and my home is at your disposal for as long as you wish.”

Belgan had worked at the castle all his life, and Imrahil knew that he would never treat a guest with less than the utmost courtesy. Still, he had been amused by the steward’s response to his words:

“Please show Prince Legolas to the west chambers and see that he has all that he needs.”

The old man’s face had not changed, but something about the set of his shoulders had visibly relaxed at the sound of the elf’s name and title. It had not surprised the prince; like most of his people, Belgan had never before seen an elf, and his attitude towards the fair folk was likely to be ambivalent, at best. However, royalty was royalty; and the name of Legolas was known to many through the songs and stories of the Great War.

Once the elf had left the study, Imrahil had taken the scrolls over to the window seat to read. No urgent summons did he find; along with a smattering of news, both messages held cordial greetings and invitations to visit. The prince had pondered the possibility for a while. Maybe next year he would accept Faramir’s offer and ride to Ithilien. He had always been fond of the young man; his gentle, wise spirit resembled that of his mother more and more as the years went by. It would soothe Imrahil’s heart to see him, in his new found happiness with his fiercely beautiful wife. If matters with Celaeren had taken a turn for the better by then his son could ride with him… he had not been to Gondor since reaching his majority and surely it was time. Maybe, if things had really improved, the King would accept Celaeren into his service for a few years. It would be good for him to be away from Dol Amroth for a while.

He had re-sealed the scrolls and taken them into the study, once more dismissing the anxieties about his son from his mind. There were, after all, more pressing issues to be considered this evening. If he had wished earlier for some unforeseen event to break into the monotony of his life, his prayers had most certainly been answered.

Of course, Imrahil had not forgotten his offer to show Legolas the sea, although he could never have expected the elf to take his words literally, spoken in the heat of passion as they were. He remembered the details of that impossible, magical encounter with alarming clarity; his mind had rehearsed them well on many a lonely night. Even before Glantathar’s death, thoughts of Legolas had warmed him when he had crept from the bedside of his sick wife to seek solitary, guilty pleasure in his own chamber. 

His memories were doing more than merely warming him now. As he looked on the elf, his profile arresting, thrown into stark relief by the lanterns’ light, he felt almost sick with excitement, anticipation . . . and dread that he may have misjudged Legolas’s purpose in coming here. 

It seemed that he was alone in his nervous tension. The elf had eaten delicately, but had clearly enjoyed his meal, while to Imrahil every mouthful had been as dry and unpalatable as sawdust. He had barely swallowed enough to maintain appearances, but had moved the conversation along reasonably smoothly, by encouraging Legolas to speak of his travels with the dwarf and of his new realm in the forests of Ithilien.

The prince found that he was sorely discouraged by the elf’s apparent ease in his company. Perhaps, after all, he had come to look at the sea, and nothing more. If that was the case it might leave him ruined with wanting, but at least he could give to Legolas that which he sought.

Draining his wineglass, Imrahil leaned towards the other. 

“Are you ready? Shall we go down to the water?”

The beautiful face turned towards him and the elf’s lips parted in an eager smile.

“Now? Yes, I am ready.”

So they moved rapidly, through the quiet corridors, to the lower door that led directly out onto the cliffs. The sleepy guard roused himself and stood to attention as the prince approached, but could not stop his eyes from straying to the stranger at his side. Imrahil smiled, and called the man by name, saying,

“Prince Legolas is to be given free passage in and out of the castle at any hour. See that your fellow guards understand.” 

As the man stammered his assent and bowed low before the prince, Imrahil caught his companion’s eye. He could not have said exactly why, but the expression he saw there caused a sudden hope to leap in his heart. Still, he determined that he would make no move towards the elf unless it was quite clear that his attentions would be welcomed, for rejection would be an agony too great to bear.

Imrahil could have descended the worn stone steps at a run, even in the near dark, so familiar was the path to him. He slowed his step out of courtesy for the elf. Surefooted Legolas may be, but he had shown no sign of wishing to rush into this moment. The silence was heavy between them, broken now by the restless sounds of waves breaking against rock and shingle, sounds that would forever sing to the prince of home and childhood. 

At last they stood side by side on the tiny gravel beach between the high rocks. The elf did not speak, but simply stared out across the endless water. Imrahil needed no elven meeting of minds between them to sense that Legolas was near overcome with emotion. It occurred to him that his presence might be intrusive.

He asked quietly, “Would you rather be alone?”

Legolas turned to him quickly and briefly laid a hand against his arm, and all the blood in the man’s body seemed to rush to his head at once.

“No, if you do not mind, I would prefer you to stay.” With that he turned back to the sea and his hand fell away. 

Imrahil dared not move. There was a long pause, during which he made a futile attempt to quell the legion of questions in his mind.

As Legolas bent to remove his boots, the man roused himself.

“It is unwise to swim here. The undertow is strong, and the rocks are deadly.” A vision of the elf, naked, wading into the water, came unbidden to his mind; his desire threatened to suffocate him.

“I thought not to swim. I simply wish to feel it . . .” the voice fell to nothing, and his companion walked slowly to the water’s edge to stand motionless in the swirling foam, the light wind catching his hair.

The prince, acutely uncomfortable, moved to sit on a large flat rock, and tried without success to avert his eyes, to think of other things. 

At length Legolas sighed, turned, and padded towards him across the shingle, his feet making hardly a sound on the tiny stones. He settled gracefully on the rocks, near enough for Imrahil to be painfully aware of his presence even were he to shut his eyes, but far enough away for there to be no real suggestion of intimacy.

“It is wondrous . . . like nothing I could have imagined.” 

Imrahil said nothing for a while, but eventually commented, 

“I am astounded that you waited so long.”

“If I had felt able to do this alone, I would have done it sooner.” Legolas replied, quietly.

The elf’s unexpected words brought a further crowd of questions into the man’s head, but he said simply:

“Did you not think to travel to the coast with Gimli?”

“No, it would not have been fair to him. He has no love of boats and water.” 

The man knew at once that this was nothing like the whole truth, but did not pursue the matter.

“I could not ask my own kin to accompany me; for I would not subject them to the same yearnings that have plagued me daily,” the elf continued, “And I did not wish to trouble you before…”

It had been Legolas who had raised the subject of Glantathar earlier in the evening. He had offered Imrahil straightforward, heartfelt sympathy for his loss.

“I hope I did not presume too much by coming to you unannounced.”

Imrahil found his voice at last.

“Indeed, no. I am greatly pleased and honoured that you came here.” He wanted to say more, but his anxious uncertainty restrained him.

“I will confess,” said the elf, in a lighter tone, “that there is another motive to my visit. There is the matter of a promise to a lady.”

The prince started forward before he could control himself. He looked into the elf’s eyes, but found them quite unreadable in the poor light. He tried to avoid analysing the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

Suddenly Legolas smiled.

“Last winter, I tarried in Edoras, and spoke to the lady Lothiriel.”

A warm rush of feeling flooded through the man. Perhaps it was simply joy at the sound of his daughter’s name; perhaps it was something else.

“Did you find her well?” he asked, eagerly.  
“She was well, and exquisitely happy, but for one thing; she worries for her father. When I told her I had thought to visit Dol Amroth, she all but begged me to do so. It would take a harder heart than mine to refuse her request.”

“She told me nothing of this in her letters!” 

“Maybe she doubted that I would keep my word . . . or maybe she thought to surprise you.”

Imrahil felt sure that the latter explanation was more probable. How like gentle, perceptive Lothiriel to sense from his letters all that he could not tell her; his loneliness, his growing sense of tedium and frustration. So she had sought to send Legolas to him . . . for what, exactly?

The elf seemed to answer him, as if he had kept pace with his thoughts.

“In our conversation this evening, you have said nothing of your life, yet I would not have needed your daughter to tell me that you have your cares.” His voice was soft, and full of compassion. 

“My friend, I know what it is to be lonely; it is neither shameful nor unusual for one in your position. With me you do not need to be Prince Imrahil, nor I, Prince Legolas. We are simply a man and an elf who have fought side by side, and each has known grief and trial. If you wish to talk of it, you will find me more than willing to listen. And I trust I do not need to tell you that you may speak freely before me, and be certain of my discretion.”

Then Imrahil understood what it was that his kind, clever daughter had hoped for, and perhaps also the true reason why Legolas had made the journey to his city. In spite of his burning desire, he could not allow himself to feel disappointment, for genuine friendship is the most precious of gifts.

So Imrahil talked, and told Legolas a little of his life. He spoke of his sadness since his wife’s passing, and the loneliness of carrying on without her. He confessed to his lack of purpose since the coming of peace, and his dissatisfaction with the formal, uneventful rote of his existence. He told of his fears for his daughter, and the extent to which he missed her presence in his daily life. But he did not speak of his sons, although he was not aware of a reason for his omission; it simply seemed that a moment came when he had said enough, and he knew that there would be other days. 

The elf was true to his word and listened earnestly; and such comments as he made were pertinent and wise. Imrahil found himself astonished by the sympathy in the other’s voice and manner. He had been raised to believe that elves, though magnificent in many respects, were cold, aloof creatures, little interested in the plight of mortal men. Such terms could never be applied to the one who sat beside him now. The man already knew him to be capable of passion and warmth; what he had not expected was the immediate understanding, the recognition that his words drew from the other. He wondered if Legolas was strange amongst elves, perhaps because of his love for a man; or whether the differences between their races were not so great as his elders would have had him think.

When the man finished talking, they sat for a time in silence, looking out over the swelling darkness of the sea towards the low, gibbous moon. It was Legolas who finally broke the comfortable peace between them.

“Too well do I know the guilty shame of longing for the past, for that time when the shadow of evil roamed the world,” he said thoughtfully. “I am lucky to be the third son of my house, and therefore free of many of the responsibilities you have to shoulder. Now that the Greenwood thrives in the sun once more, my father has willingly given me leave to travel and to make my home in Ithilien. My journeys with Gimli are not yet over; there is much we wish to see together, much to learn, and much pleasure to be found in his company as we travel. There are many things for me to look forward to, even to the day my ship leaves this shore; yet I cannot tell you how much time I spend in looking back.”

The elf’s willingness to confide in him moved Imrahil greatly. 

“It does not surprise me, and I see no shame in it,” he said softly. 

Again they sat, and the night grew dark and chill around them. 

Legolas stirred himself when Imrahil failed to suppress a yawn. 

“Forgive me, my friend,” the elf said, “I believe you have need of your bed.”

The prince stood, and stretched, wondering suddenly if he was not being dismissed. It was true that his back was beginning to ache from sitting too long on the cold rock, and his eyelids were feeling heavy. He knew that he should climb back up the stone stairs before long, but was loathe to do so, as it was evident that he would be making the ascent alone. 

“You will stay here?” he asked, although he knew what the answer would be.

“Yes, by your leave. I do not need sleep tonight, and would listen to the sea’s true voice until morning.”

Still the man lingered, unsure what he was waiting for. A sign of some sort, or an invitation? None was forthcoming, but he saw the elf’s faintly glowing features arrange themselves into a gentle smile.

“Fear not,” Legolas said, a lilt of humour in his voice, “I promise that I will not attempt to swim, and that you shall see me safe at the breakfast table.”

Realising that he would only appear foolish if he stayed longer, Imrahil finally bade the elf goodnight, and turned to run up the steps to the castle.


	3. Chapter 3

Merenin could not contain his joy as he rode up to the city with his wife. Turning his face to the early morning sun and feeling the fresh salt breeze cool his skin, he laughed aloud for the sheer pleasure of it.

Lelneth, beside him, said, “The morning is passing fair, Merenin.” 

He turned to watch her shake her head, the wild mass of rich brown curls glinting red where the light caught them, as they settled down her back. Their eyes met, and a sweet smile of complicity, laced with the promise of delights to come, passed between them.

The day was indeed beautiful, all the more so to Merenin’s mind for the knowledge that he would spend it in the land he loved so much. They had sailed through the night, and disembarked at first light, to satisfy his impatience to reach his home. Not that the past fortnight had been a hardship; he knew that the dullest of diplomatic visits would be as a holiday now, so long as Lelneth travelled with him.

“It is not just the morning, my beloved,” he said. “Four years ago I could never have dreamed of knowing such happiness.”

“And your happiness is my joy,” his wife replied simply, as they reined their horses to a halt at the great gates.

Belgan met them at the castle doors and informed Merenin that his father was still at breakfast.

“He entertains a guest,” added the old man, in his studiedly neutral tones. 

There was something about his posture, some wariness, or perhaps even disapproval, that caught Merenin’s attention immediately. Before he could ask for clarification, however, the steward had thrown wide the doors of the Great Hall, and the young man stepped inside.

His father sat at the centre of the long table, deep in conversation with the blond, white clad figure at his side. 

‘He entertains a woman?’ thought Merenin, incredulously, but then the figure turned towards him, and he felt his eyebrows shoot up in amazement. He forced himself to suppress a chuckle as he recalled his sister’s letter. So this was the friend she had aimed to send here? He had to admit that he was greatly impressed. 

Lelneth coughed lightly behind him, and Merenin remembered his manners. He strode up to the table and bowed. 

“Father. Prince Legolas, you do us great honour. It is a pleasure to see you here.”

The elf stood and returned his bow with a fluid, graceful movement.

“The pleasure is all mine.” His voice rang out like sweet music across the hall. When he straightened, Merenin looked him in the eye and was intrigued to see his neutral expression allowing the merest hint of amused appraisal to show through.

As Merenin presented his wife, he could have sworn that he saw Legolas grin for the briefest of instants, but dismissed the notion as foolish. His father’s guest was an elf, after all; and surely elves did not grin.

Lelneth, of course, was all but humming with excitement at this new turn of events. She wasted no time in gently steering her husband towards his father and seating herself on the other side of Legolas. As the two men fell into discussion of the details of his journey, Merenin remained half aware of his wife’s clever questions and the elf’s willing response. He smiled inwardly, knowing only too well how fearsomely irresistible she could be. No doubt she would know the story of the elf’s life - and those of all his family - before the end of the meal.

Legolas had not aged, of course, in the years since Elessar’s coronation. How strange to think that he would look this way for another ten centuries or more; the man suppressed a shiver at the thought. Yet there was something very different about the elf. Merenin had observed all the fair folk at the ceremony with a good deal of fascinated interest. He remembered noticing something about the Mirkwood prince, a tension, a fragility, which had contrasted starkly with the placid grace of his kin. Whatever had caused it then, there was no sign of it now. Legolas appeared relaxed, serene, almost radiant, as he laughed delightedly with Lelneth, and peeled an orange with quick, deft fingers.

On the other hand, Merenin reflected, his father looked terrible. His face had the unmistakeably grey look of one who has not slept well, and although he smiled as he talked with his son, it was clear that he was anxious about something. Merenin resolved to speak with him later, in private, to find out what had disturbed him so. It was hard to believe that Legolas could have brought bad news; there was certainly nothing in the elf’s demeanour to suggest it.

Once they reached the privacy of their chambers, Lelneth turned to her husband, eyes shining.

“Well! The renowned Prince of Mirkwood, here in Dol Amroth. It promises to be an interesting summer,” she announced.

“He intends to stay how long?” He had no doubt that such a trivial piece of information would have been extracted from the elf at the start of the interview.

“He is not sure. He only arrived yesterday, and has yet to make any definite plans.” She kept her eyes on him as she crossed to the dressing table. “Is he not astonishing?” 

“In many respects, no doubt,” said Merenin dryly. “To what, in particular, do you refer?”

“Oh, come on, Merenin. Are you quite blind? The songs tell of his courage and skill, but I have to say that the ones I have heard missed out his most important attributes.” she picked up a large brush and started to attack her mane of curls. “He is nothing short of magnificent. Any woman would kill to have skin like that, and his voice….”

“I do believe you are enamoured of our guest!” Merenin attempted a stern tone, but could not suppress a smile, remembering his own reaction when first he had set eyes on Galadriel and Arwen.

“Husband! You know there is room in my heart only for you…. but he is remarkable, is he not?”

“Quite remarkable,” he conceded, with a sigh. He went to sit on the large plush couch, and watched his wife with adoring eyes as she smoothed a white cream onto her face. 

“What is the matter with your father?” Lelneth asked, suddenly serious.

“I do not know, for I had no chance to ask him. But you marked how he looks?”

“Aye, like a man who has not slept for nights.” She swivelled on the small stool to face him. “I wonder . . . no . . .”

Merenin narrowed his eyes, but the expression his wife had assumed was innocent. It was clear that she was not going to elaborate on her thoughts.

“Did you know that your father counted Legolas as a friend?” she asked, after a brief pause.

“’Tis strange, but he has never mentioned it. He has spoken of him as a comrade, of course, but along with many others. Yet my sister’s letter mentioned an old friend who was planning to visit; I feel sure she meant the elf.”

“Yes, he told me he had seen her, and that she was well.”

Lelneth stood, and stretched her arms above her head before moving across to the couch to join her husband.

“I have a plan,” she told him.

“Mercy! Should I tremble, or be glad?” He ducked to avoid her playful blow.

“Knave!” she laughed. “Hear me first, then mock if you must.”

“Legolas has come here to be shown the sea, not merely to look at it. He told me as much, and I deem him wise for it. How much more will he see, if he travels the coast with one who knows all its secret treasures?”

She paused, waiting for Merenin’s nod of agreement, which he duly gave.

“Now ask yourself, to whom shall this task be allotted? Who will show Legolas the sea? You, my love? I would not have you so far from me, and if I journey with you, then we would have the entourage, and I do not believe that is what he wants.

“No. Legolas came here for your father to show him the sea, and your father is anxious to give his guest what he wants, but cannot bring himself to shirk his duties. He is always so bent on meeting his responsibilities; he has forgotten how to take care of himself. So you must solve the problem for him.”

“I should go to him, and make the suggestion myself . . .” said Merenin, smiling at his beautiful, perceptive wife.

“Aye, and he will say no, and his counsellors will not like the idea at all. I should not be surprised if old Ancened has a fit at the thought of the prince riding out alone with the strange elf. But you must persuade him to do it, none the less. He has been unhappy for far too long, and here, maybe, is a chance for him to smile again. Lothiriel obviously thought so . . .”

The mention of his beloved sister’s name was enough to decide Merenin, as his wife had no doubt intended. He kissed her softly, then rose from the couch. 

“You are quite right, my love, as always. I will go to him and persuade him that I am more than capable of dealing with matters of state for a week or two, while he sets out adventuring . . . Gods, I can already hear what the court will say. ‘Has he lost his mind? Has this unnatural creature cast some elvish spell on him?’” 

Merenin accompanied this last with an uncanny imitation of one of his father’s less popular advisors. Lelneth laughed, but stood up beside her husband.

“No matter what they say, he is the prince, and the decision is his. Even he should be allowed a holiday. I would wager that he has longed for such freedom for many a year.”

His father had never said as much directly, but Merenin knew she was right. He had no great urge to step into the prince’s shoes, and indeed acting as regent would probably be most irksome, especially in these glorious days of early summer when the sea was at its most beautiful. However, he would accept the task gladly if it might offer his father some respite from the sadness which had dogged him for the last three years. At least the elf had arrived at an opportune moment, with Celaeren away and nothing but quiet peace in Dol Amroth and the surrounding lands. 

Merenin kissed his wife again, this time with passion. 

“You are as wise and kind as you are lovely,” he said fondly. “and I am the luckiest man alive. I shall go at once to my father and put your plan into action.” 

He turned to leave the room, but came to an abrupt halt as Lelneth’s arms were flung around him from behind, and one hand brazenly slid down over his belly and dipped beneath his tunic’s hem.

“Not so fast, husband,” she purred in his ear. “There are other matters you must attend to first.”

Laughing, he twisted in her arms to face her, then lifted her bodily and carried her to the bed.


	4. Chapter 4

A small group gathered to say farewell as they left the castle. Imrahil was amused to see Heledir amongst them, although if he had given the matter any thought, he might have expected him to be there. He had to admit that the man had at last managed to surprise him the previous afternoon; just one more sign of the extent to which Legolas’s arrival had turned his life upside down.

Ancened had requested an audience with the prince as soon as he had heard the news. It had not been an easy interview. In the normal run of things, Imrahil greatly respected his counsellor’s views, and accepted his rather conservative nature as a fitting counterpoint to his own, more impetuous personality. On this occasion, however, he was not to be dissuaded from his chosen course. Ancened would not back down; and Imrahil, who regarded his birthright as both a gift of fate and a job to be done, was forced to assert his status in a manner he generally preferred to avoid. 

Ancened had finally conceded defeat, and resorted to icy civility. He had swept from the study with disapproval written in every line of his body – disapproval, as Imrahil was well aware, not of the prince’s need for a holiday, but of the unconventional manner in which he meant to take it.

As the door closed behind the counsellor, Heledir, who had remained inconspicuously behind the desk throughout, had cleared his throat.

“If I may be so bold, my lord,” he had said hesitantly, “I think he is quite wrong.”

Imrahil was astonished. In all the years the secretary had worked for him, he had never expressed an opinion without it being coaxed from him with a certain amount of determination. 

He had sat down across the desk from Heledir, and watched the younger man intently.

“You need to get away, anyone can see that, and Prince Legolas is a most . . . fitting . . . companion.”

A definite blush had coloured the secretary’s cheeks as his gaze met that of his sovereign. 

‘Well,’ Imrahil had reflected, ‘It seems the irresistible prince of Mirkwood has conquered another heart. Who would have thought it?’

As they rode down the long avenue towards the great gates, he was well aware of the reactions of the citizens around them. Old and young, male and female alike could not avoid a wide-eyed stare at Legolas, before respectfully bowing their heads to the prince. Stealing a glance at the elf riding alongside him, Imrahil found he had to agree with his subjects; here was something well worth looking at.

Legolas rode tall on his fine steed, without saddle or reins, perfectly balanced and at ease. His hair was pulled back into two simple braids above his ears, emphasising both their elven points and the fine bone structure of his face. Dressed in simple hunting garb, his bow and quiver slung across his back, he was every inch the warrior elf of song and story. He was also utterly, devastatingly desirable. 

Not for the first time, Imrahil wondered just what he was riding towards.

As they passed through the gates Legolas looked searchingly at him and raised an eyebrow, evidently sensing the prince’s anxiety.

“There can be no doubt that you leave matters in good hands,” he said. “Merenin resembles his father to an extent that is almost comical, and as for his lady . . . she is exceptional; such a vital, passionate spirit.”

“Aye,” Imrahil replied, “They are well matched, and supremely happy together.” 

Legolas, with his acute elven hearing, did not fail to hear the man’s small sigh.

“Surely you cannot deny that it is better to know love and to face the grief of parting, than to live a life in ignorance of such bliss? Do not begrudge him his joy,” he said quietly. His face gave nothing away; Imrahil could only guess at the pain behind his words.

“Forgive me,” the man replied, equally softly. “I fear that I have been submerged in my sorrow for too long. It is no wonder my children feel that I need to be distracted.”

“So cast aside your sorrow now,” said the elf “and enjoy the glory of the day. It cannot fail to move you, if there truly is elven blood in your veins.”

It was indeed a glorious day. A touch of lingering haze and the sun’s low angle tempered the sky to palest gold at the horizon, but the clear blue overhead spoke of the heat to come. The land showed the bright greens of early summer, and the sea shimmered peacefully in the stillness of the morning. Imrahil smiled as he looked about him, and breathed deeply.

“Well,” he enquired of his companion, “shall we ride hard? We could reach the summer house not long after midday and take the boat out this afternoon. Or we could take our time, stay a night there, and sail tomorrow.”

Legolas matched his smile with one of pure pleasure.

“Let us ride hard” he said, firmly. “I would feel the sweet air on my face this morning, and cool my feet in salt water when the sun reaches its full strength.”

Imrahil shifted in his saddle and adjusted his hold on the reins. He watched, intrigued, as the elf bent down to his horse’s head and whispered in its ear, too quietly for the man to determine the language, let alone the words. The proud roan tossed its head and whinnied loudly, then set off at a gallop, with Imrahil’s grey stallion close behind. 

By early afternoon, a fair breeze had blown up, stirring the sea’s surface into flurries of white and filling the tall blue sail most handsomely. The boat was small and sturdy, simple in its design yet responsive to Imrahil’s touch as he reclined lazily in the stern, one hand on the tiller. Legolas sat with his back to him, cross-legged in the prow, motionless but for his streaming hair and with eyes fixed on the wide leagues of water before him. 

Imrahil longed to know what was passing through the elf’s mind, but had not the heart to break the silence, sensing that Legolas was absorbed in the magic of the moment. He let his own thoughts wander back to the first occasion on which he had made this journey, when his father had taken the helm and he and his sister had laughed and squabbled, all the way from the summer house to the bay. 

Adrahil and Finduilas; two bright spirits, each taken long before their time.

In the course of their lengthy moonlit conversation on the beach, Legolas had told him that the Eldar regarded mortal death as Illuvatar’s gift, a divine mystery forever hidden from the elves. Imrahil had refrained from the obvious comment: that such a view might not be so easy to hold to, once death had claimed the man he loved. 

The sight of a familiar group of rocks on the seaward side roused Imrahil from his reverie and he reached to swing the boom. An unwary sailor would pass the bay without even knowing it was there, its secrets hidden by the curving line of the coast, but he knew its location too well to miss it. The boat came about and headed in to the shore at an angle, soon encountering the choppy waters around the cliffs. Lively waves slapped across its bows and dashed its occupants with spray. 

Legolas laughed, a clear silvery sound that sent a shiver down Imrahil’s back. The elf spun effortlessly around to face him, and even with the length of the boat between them the light in his eyes was startling. Still he said nothing, but there was no need; his delight was evident enough, and Imrahil felt his heart lifting in response. 

Nor did the rest of his body remain unmoved. As they slid into the calm of the bay he watched Legolas lean over the side to trail his fingers in the water, his long slender body stretching out alluringly in the process. The man could only be grateful for the loose shirt he was wearing over his breeches; if he had thought he had his desire under control, it was clear that he had been wrong. He swallowed hard, and tried not to think what might happen once they reached the shore and the inevitable swim was proposed.

Before long Imrahil was slowly bringing the boat up to the rough, simple jetty, and Legolas jumped ashore to make the ropes fast. The elf unloaded their belongings and stood silently while Imrahil saw to the sail, making no move to help, but watching his hands running through the familiar moves with a concentration that unnerved the man considerably. The look Legolas gave him as he sprang from the boat and picked up his pack did little to restore his confidence, for his eyes were dark, and his face serious.

‘He must know how I feel,’ thought Imrahil, with a sinking sensation in his gut.

They turned to walk along the jetty to the beach, and the uncomfortable moment soon passed as the elf looked around him with a slowly growing smile.

The beach was small, but formed of a perfect crescent of fine, pale gold. It was held between two arms of high, craggy rock, which curved around to make a natural harbour and shielded the bay from passing boats. Behind the beach a scattering of trees spilled out from the steep wooded valley, forming a broad green fringe to the sand, and to one side a stream of sweet water emerged and found its way to the sea. Between the pines and olives could be seen the worn grey stone of the simple hut where Imrahil, in his youth, had waited out many an unexpected shower or storm.

“It is lovely,” Legolas said. They had climbed down from the end of the jetty, and were walking barefoot over the warm sand. “I cannot believe that nobody else has discovered it and claimed it as their own.” 

“There are other bays,” said Imrahil, with a grin, “but this one has always been special to my family. None of the local people will invade our privacy by coming here.” As soon as the words escaped his mouth he stopped, realising the implications of his statement.

Legolas said nothing, but slowly bent to lay his pack on the sand, then straightened again and turned to look back at the sea. The breeze caught his fine white shirt, moulding it to his body, and blew a strand of hair across his face, golden in the bright sun. 

He turned his gaze to Imrahil, who stood as if rooted to the spot. 

“Then it is perfect,” he said.

The blood began to pound in Imrahil’s ears as he stared at Legolas. The look on the elf’s face was unambiguous now, the invitation at last beyond doubt; yet the man found that he was quite unable to move to accept it.

“Why do you hesitate?” asked Legolas, a note of laughter in his voice. “Do you not know why I came here?”

“Why?” Imrahil’s query would have been inaudible to a mortal man. His mouth was dry and his breathing felt suddenly constricted.

“Because I believed you to be a man of your word,” replied the elf, and for a second it seemed to Imrahil that all movement, of his heart, his lungs, of the air itself, ceased.

In that instant, as both stood silent and still, he understood a number of things.

Surely Legolas had been waiting, teasing him gently but keeping his distance, in anticipation of this moment. If that was the case, the implication was clear; Imrahil was not the only one who had relived their night together, imagining his passionate promise becoming reality. How many times had the elf found his pleasure while thinking of him? He could not dwell on that question for long; the mere thought would be enough to make him lose control, before he had even begun to show the elf that he was, indeed, a man of his word.

Two strides closed the distance between them, and at last Legolas was in his arms. 

Mindful of his promise, Imrahil kissed him hard; there would be time enough for gentle caresses once his claim had been established. One hand in the small of the back pulled Legolas in to him, their bodies matched in height, muscle against muscle. His tongue plunged into the sweetness of the elf’s mouth, his other hand combing through soft hair to force the head closer still, to lock him into the hungry embrace. 

When the need for air became imperative, Imrahil relaxed his hold on the elf’s head and pulled his mouth away. Legolas seemed reluctant to let him go; his hands gripped the man’s shoulders as if his legs might buckle beneath him, and a slight shift of his hips made his arousal urgently apparent as their bodies pressed yet more firmly together. Imrahil brushed a finger across the moist, silent lips, looked steadily into the deep blue eyes and understood what it was that had made them dark.

No words were spoken as the man took a step back and brought both hands to the fastenings of the elf’s shirt. Legolas stood with his arms by his sides, neither helping nor hindering Imrahil in his endeavour, but simply allowing him to do as he pleased. In spite of the fact that he was all but trembling with lust, the man found himself to be totally focussed on the task. It was not long before the elf stood bare-chested before him, and strong fingers set to work on the soft cotton leggings.

Once Legolas was quite naked, Imrahil stepped back again, and looked long at the glorious sight before him. He had thought to call the elf beautiful, as he had lain in the candle light and shadow years ago, but realised now that the word was too tame for all that he beheld. The strength of the tall lean body seemed barely confined beneath the smooth, luminescent skin, and the stillness with which the elf awaited him was unearthly. Imrahil would gladly have fallen to his knees before the magnificent being, but that, too, could wait. 

For now, he sought only to meet the unmistakeable challenge in the elf’s unwavering gaze.

Inspiration struck him suddenly, and he crouched to reach into his pack, without breaking eye contact. The flask held oil to prevent his skin drying and cracking, through prolonged exposure to salt water and sun; he had not dared to think that it might serve another purpose, but it would do well enough now. Let Legolas think that he had come prepared for this… he grinned at the thought and saw the elf’s eyes widen in response. 

His heart thudded and his skin tingled as he went to stand at Legolas’s side, and briefly bent to place the oil flask on the sand. He placed one hand gently on the taut belly then slid it, slowly, down; carefully avoiding the erection, reaching below to cup the sac firmly in his palm. Tiny movements of his thumb stroked the underside of the rigid cock, drawing a gasp from parted lips; but still the elf said nothing.

Imrahil kept his hand in place while he moved behind Legolas. The contrast between his own clothed body and the naked elf pressed against him excited him beyond belief; his own cock felt impossibly tight as it pushed into the cleft between the other’s buttocks. His free arm snaked around to draw Legolas more tightly in towards him, and his hand splayed out across the smooth warm chest, fingers and thumb brushing first one nipple, then the other. It was enough to make the elf tremble, and the slim hands came up to hold on to the man’s shoulders.

Imrahil bent his head to the elf’s neck and ran his teeth and tongue lightly along the skin there, tasting salt, before speaking directly into the pointed ear.

“Look at the sea, Legolas, listen to it.” His voice was soft and low. “Let it enter your mind and fill your heart, as I will enter you, and fill you with my desire.”

This brought a moan from the elf, and Imrahil knew he could wait no longer to satisfy his own aching need. 

“Kneel for me, lovely one,” he said, and bringing both hands to the elf’s shoulders, he guided him down onto the warm golden sand.

Imrahil had to close his eyes and breathe deeply as he smoothed the oil on to his cock, for the vision displayed before him threatened to bring matters to an all too hasty conclusion. Even on hands and knees, thighs invitingly parted, Legolas maintained his poise. The man had the distinct impression that the elf was still teasing him, challenging him, and a wave of liquefying lust passed through him, as he silently vowed to do whatever it might take to disturb that inhuman composure.

Positioning himself quickly, he forced his cock home in one slow, determined movement, easing his way past the tightness that brought tears to his eyes. Wanting to savour each sensation to the full, he paused, and was rewarded when Legolas shifted slightly against him and let out an audible breath. Grasping the elf’s hips, he hauled them back and held him tightly, and waited again, feeling the blood throbbing in his cock. 

His self control almost deserted him when Legolas suddenly dropped down onto his elbows, causing him to sink in deeper still. He started to move, slowly pulling back as far as he could without withdrawing altogether, then thrusting decisively in again, hard and swift. After a few such movements he realised that the elf was pushing back to meet him just as forcefully, and he smiled, knowing that he would achieve his aim ere long. 

The pleasure could have overwhelmed Imrahil, but he willed himself to hold back, halting for a moment to recover each time he approached the edge. He would make this last and hear Legolas cry out, before he reached his own release - or perish in the attempt. Leaning forward slightly, he slid his hand round the elf’s hip and held his shaft in a firm grip, feeling a shock of painful delight as the muscles around his own cock contracted tightly in response. 

Hand and hips moved now in concert, and the elf’s composure finally gave way. He writhed beneath Imrahil’s touch, his body rising to meet the man with every thrust, his breathing loud and fast.

Still he did not speak. 

Imrahil, realising that he could not stay himself much longer, let go of the elf’s cock and drew himself out to the limit. Legolas groaned, and tried to move to regain the contact, but was firmly restrained by the man’s hold on his hips.

“Say it.” Imrahil’s voice was a low growl.

There was a pause, as the elf strove against the hands that held him.

“I am yours,” the sweet words came at last, almost a whisper. 

Imrahil pushed in once, slowly, then withdrew again, relishing the sheer power of the moment. The truth of the matter did not concern him; all he wanted was the elf’s surrender.

“Louder,” he said, “Let the sea hear you.”

“I am yours, Imrahil! Finish it, please!” cried Legolas, his voice full of need.

Satisfied, Imrahil buried himself once more in hot, tight flesh, and reached again for the elf’s cock. Abandoning his self control, he rammed into the golden body almost brutally, leaning forward over the long back as his hand sought to maintain the same rhythm as his hips. The elf’s capitulation was complete, and he cried out freely now, his voice blending with the man’s as Imrahil groaned and shouted, wordless sounds of unashamed bliss.

Suddenly, Legolas tensed. 

“Yours . . .” he cried again, as he came, spilling into the man’s hand and onto the sand beneath.

Imrahil felt the spasms in the muscles surrounding him. The pleasure of it was blinding, and he stared unseeing at the sky. He shouted his lover’s name as his whole body shook with the power and depth of his own orgasm, the fluid exploding at last from his pulsing cock, deep inside the elf. 

Collapsed on the sand, they lay together on their sides, Legolas with his back against Imrahil’s chest, and for a long time they neither moved nor spoke. Imrahil listened to the sea’s soothing murmur, enjoying the sun on his face, the breeze lifting his hair. His mind felt numb, contentment and disbelief suppressing the questions he would eventually have to ask. 

He raised a hand to stroke the elf’s hair.

Legolas suddenly turned in his arms to face him, and initiated a gentle kiss, full of affection and lazy, sated desire.

“You know there is a limit to what I can give you,” he said, when he pulled away at last.

“Of course I do,” replied Imrahil. Whatever his uncertainties, he was under no illusions about the elf’s commitment. 

“Your heart and spirit are his, and always will be,” he acknowledged.

A sudden thrill of daring ran through him, as he thought of the challenge he had seen in those blue eyes, and he added,

“But for the time that you spend here with me, your body, at least, is mine.”

Legolas laughed, his eyes sparkling.

“I was right to come here,” he said. 

They kissed again, with a little more heat this time.

“I have but one question,” announced Legolas, moments later.

“Ask,” said the man, stroking his lover’s cheek.

“Will you submit as willingly to me?”

Startled, Imrahil gazed at the elf, and saw both amusement and hunger in his face.

“Will you make me?” he asked, surprising himself with his boldness.

The smile that spread slowly across Legolas’s face held more than a hint of wickedness. His hand reached under Imrahil’s shirt and found its way up beneath the cotton, to his chest. The man gasped as he felt a sharp tug on his nipple, which seemed to send urgent signals directly to his cock.

“I think you will find that the prince of Mirkwood is not easily denied,” Legolas told him, his voice as smooth as fine silk.

“I do not doubt it . . .” Imrahil managed to say, before the skilled hand moved lower and robbed him of the power of speech.

It was some time before either felt the need for further words, though sounds of pleasure soon mingled with the crash and hiss of waves upon the shore, as the sun moved slowly through the bright afternoon sky.


	5. Chapter 5

Imrahil woke to chill air on his face in the early morning. The beach lay in the shadow of the mountains behind, although the sun was already sparkling on the waters of the bay. He shifted a little on the hard ground, missing the warmth beside him, and felt a sudden rush of excitement as memories of the previous day came into clear focus.

He rolled on his side and pushed himself up onto one elbow, looking about him. Was it relief that he felt at the sight of Legolas, glimmering silver-gold, standing unmoving at the water’s edge? The elf was gazing out to sea, of course, small waves breaking over his feet, arms at his sides. Yet again, Imrahil found himself desperately curious about the thoughts that were occupying his lover so.

His lover.

He fell back onto the makeshift bed as his body responded to the notion, even as his mind struggled to comprehend it. How could this have happened? He had long ago resigned himself to the fact that what he and the elf had shared in Cormallen had been nothing more than a moment of madness, such as is known to occur in the aftermath of battle. But this, this was something altogether different, a gift of such magnitude that he barely knew how to accept it. That such a perfect being should seek him out, should choose him as Legolas had apparently done, was enough to inspire awe and gratitude in the man. It was quite obvious, however, that the elf himself desired no such response; and as before, Imrahil was determined to give Legolas what he wanted.

He rolled over between the blankets to watch the elf, who had walked across the bay towards the jetty and now stood in deeper water, peering down, presumably at the fish swimming about him. Imrahil yawned and stretched, seeking a more comfortable position on the ground, and became aware of a definite lingering soreness, the legacy of last night’s activity. He shut his eyes, as a shiver ran through him at the recollection of Legolas, lithe and strong, fucking him with such masterful thoroughness that he had been left utterly, blissfully, unmanned. 

In all his fantasies of passionate trysts with Legolas, Imrahil had never imagined himself as the one being taken. However, in spite of the novelty of the idea and his anxious reservations, when the moment came he discovered that he was quite unable to refuse. The very act of acquiescence was thrilling, and as the elf used one hand to raise his legs and ran the other down the backs of his thighs, he thought that perhaps he understood why Legolas had initially chosen to submit to him. 

The elf had been gentle with him at first, no doubt conscious of his inexperience, patiently preparing him with oil-coated fingers – a refinement that had not occurred to Imrahil, who had flushed at the thought of his own inept approach. When he had flinched at the unfamiliar pain, Legolas had whispered to him, half singing, until his muscles seemed to relax of their own accord. Still, when the final entry began, Imrahil found he had cause to be grateful for the fact that the elf’s cock, like Legolas himself, was slender and smooth; surely anything bulkier would be impossible to bear. 

What he had not been prepared for was the shocking physical pleasure of the coupling itself, each stab of the elf’s cock a searing flash of bliss lighting him from the inside. Somehow, Legolas had made it last an eternity, driving Imrahil far beyond the limits of coherent thought or speech. When the end finally came, he had clutched the elf’s arms in a state akin to panic, staring into the searching blue eyes while Legolas plunged into him one last time and held himself there, tensed for his own release. Imrahil had felt his flesh begin to clench against the impaling hardness of the elf as his orgasm erupted, and the ecstasy had at last overwhelmed him. He could remember little more.

Even the partial memory of the encounter was enough to bring the man out in a sweat, and to direct his hand to his erection. He turned onto his back and shut his eyes again, as the gentle movements became firmer, more rhythmic. 

Before he could achieve his end, the elf’s clear voice rang out across the sand.

“Imrahil! Will you not join me?”

Jolted back into the present, Imrahil stilled his hand and looked down the beach. Legolas stood in the water, staring towards him, hair flying loose about his face. Guiltily aware of the other’s keen eyesight, yet happy to be reminded that there were more rewarding ways to assuage his lust, the man rolled over once more, and crawled out from beneath the blankets. Aching and stiff as he was, he did not run to his lover’s side, but walked slowly, enjoying the cool air on his naked skin and the growing excitement he felt under the other’s gaze.

Legolas made no move as he approached, but his smile caused Imrahil’s heart to swell with joy. Up to his thighs in the bracingly cold water he stopped, and waited for the other to speak.

“Good morning, my friend,” said the elf. “I see you are . . .” he raised an eyebrow as his glance dropped deliberately down Imrahil’s body, “ . . . fully awake.”

Imrahil could have made a witty retort, to the effect that Legolas himself was quite obviously no less aroused; instead he grinned, covered the remaining three feet between them, placed his hands on the elf’s damp shoulders, and murmured his own greeting into the warm, willing mouth.

Legolas returned the kiss with considerable enthusiasm, but after a while pulled away, sliding his hands down Imrahil’s back to rest them lightly on his waist. 

“I have a better idea,” he said, and turned around. “Come.”

With a single undulating movement, he sprang up and dived into the clear water. Imrahil watched as his pale form moved sleekly, just below the surface, heading out towards the open sea. There seemed little alternative but to follow, so the man threw himself forwards, exhaling sharply as the water hit his chest, and set off in the elf’s wake with a powerful overarm stroke. 

Ah, but it felt good, the sun’s warmth beginning to make itself known on his back, the keen air filling his lungs as he raised his head for breath, the chill, refreshing water sliding past his unfettered skin. Since boyhood he had loved nothing more than to swim naked in the summer sea, and now, his aches and pains forgotten, he revelled in the strength of his body, and the rhythm of his movements. 

Once he sensed the lower temperatures of the deep currents, Imrahil paused and looked around, treading water lazily, leaning back into the swell. His lover was nowhere to be seen. After a moment, he felt a faint note of anxiety creeping into his mind – elf or no elf, surely Legolas should have surfaced by now? Just as his fear began an ominous crescendo, a sudden rush of movement below the surface threatened to tip him backwards, and the elf appeared in front of him, laughing and spluttering, shaking his head to remove the long locks of wet blond hair from his eyes.

“You are a fine swimmer, Imrahil!” he said. “I had to work to keep up, for all that I had the start on you.” 

Imrahil felt an unholy sense of satisfaction at this admission.

“And you are a merciless tease,” he responded. “I had begun to think I had lost you.”

“Nay!” replied Legolas, innocently. “Do not think badly of me. I simply prefer to swim underwater – it is . . . quieter, and I like to watch the fish.”

The man could not resist a smile at the strangely childlike words. 

“Then you must have phenomenal lung control,” he rejoined, wryly.

He watched a grin, which could only be described as lascivious, spread across Legolas’s face, and wondered what had become of the legendary formality of the First-born.

“I find it to be a most useful attribute . . .” the elf said, and disappeared once more below the water.

Imrahil drew air through gritted teeth, narrowly avoiding a mouthful of brine, as he felt the cool hands on his thighs and the warm lips on his cock. Parting his legs to allow Legolas better access, he floundered for a moment, before establishing a stabilising motion with his arms. The contrast between the cold of the water on his skin, and the eager heat of Legolas’s mouth around him, was astonishing. No less stimulating was the sight of the elf’s silvery body, tantalisingly distorted by the water’s lens, and the cloud of flaxen hair that floated around his busy head.

He knew he would not last long; perhaps the elf could really manage to . . . he groaned loudly as the golden head shot up from the water and Legolas gasped for breath, replacing his mouth with a frantically working hand. Imrahil shouted as he came, struggling to stay afloat, swallowing salt as he forgot to paddle in his excitement.

“I am sorry,” Legolas said to him, once he had regained his equilibrium. “I will serve you better when we are on dry land.”

Imrahil moved behind the elf and turned him round, reclining into the waves with Legolas in his arms, back towards him and head against his chest. So they floated, an occasional kick or rotation of an arm all that was needed to keep them stable.

“Say no such thing. That was . . . this is . . . perfect,” Imrahil said. Indeed, he knew that this was no exaggeration; for the first time in many months, he felt at peace.

Later, on the beach, after a good meal of freshly caught fish grilled over a driftwood fire, Imrahil judged that the time had come for his questions. 

They had spent the day idly, pleasuring each other with gentle, playful passion and lazing in the sun before cooling their sated bodies in the sea. In the afternoon, given the blessing of a fair wind, they had taken the boat out into the deeper waters. Their talk had covered many subjects, though none too personal or testing; throughout the long hours of cloudless heat, it seemed that neither had the heart to raise more serious matters. When the prow had turned towards the open sea, Legolas had fallen into quiet contemplation once more.

For his part, Imrahil had been content simply to bask in the twin delights of the elf’s company and the sheer beauty of the day. The cares of his life seemed far distant, and he was keen for them to remain that way, for a few days at least. He had no wish to disturb this brief and fragile happiness by probing it too deeply, but as the sun’s last rays sank into the dusk, he realised that he did need some answers from his companion.

He turned to Legolas, who was sitting cross legged beside him, gazing, as ever, out across the waves.

“Are you happy?” he asked gently.

A moment passed before the elf replied, almost as if he was examining his thoughts for the truth.

“Happier than I had thought possible on this side of the sea,” he said at last, in a grave voice.

They stared at each other in the fading light; Legolas’s expression solemn, Imrahil’s mind engaged in forming his next question.

“I do not wish to tread indelicately,” he said, “but there is something I would ask you about… how it is between us.” 

“Then ask; we are adults and friends; there is no need for bashfulness.”

“When we – when we lay together years ago, after the battle, there was something strange between us, a link; it seemed I knew your thoughts, although I have no idea how it came to be. Yet now, when we have time and freedom together, the link is no longer there. I do not understand it.”

“I am afraid I do.” The elf fixed his eyes on the horizon once more. “It was my doing, though it shames me to say it. The intrusion was unforgivable, and I should have controlled myself better from the start, once I realised that you could feel my thoughts. But I was too distraught, too involved in my misery to think what I was doing or to consider the effect on you, and for that I am deeply sorry.”

Imrahil watched in amazement as Legolas turned towards him again, his look of contrition clearly visible, even in the half dark.

“No!” he said, quickly. “It was not an intrusion – I meant no criticism; I merely hoped to comprehend it. You should not regret anything about that night on my behalf.”

He felt a stab of dismay when Legolas let out a weary sigh.

“I am not proud of the way I used you, fair prince of men,” the elf said. “Little chance did I give you to resist my seduction. I sought comfort and pleasure from you with no thought to the strictures of your life. You told me you were married and I ignored the fact, leaving you to cope with your guilt.”

“It was no hardship to me,” the man interjected.

This was not strictly true, of course. Guilt there had been aplenty, at first, and later, after every night of lonely fantasy. However, Imrahil had the pragmatic soul of a seasoned soldier, and had decided early on that regrets could not change history, and were therefore largely worthless. Besides, if he had been asked to choose between a life of remorse on the one hand, or foregoing his memories of Legolas on the other, he knew quite well that he would opt for the former, every time.

“You ached so, for loss of him,” he said tentatively, returning to his original line of thought, “yet it was not just grief. You wanted comfort, but feared to seek it.”

“You see how I made myself vulnerable, by failing to control my thoughts?” asked the elf, bitterly. “One night of indiscretion and my secrets were known to you.”

Imrahil was stung by the words, but tried not to let his voice betray him. He placed a cautious hand on Legolas’s arm.

“Does it cause you great anxiety, the fact that I know?” he asked, softly.

There was a long pause, then the elf placed a hand over his, and squeezed it gently.

“No, Imrahil, forgive me, I am merely angry with myself,” he turned to fix his gaze on the man. “I find it easy to trust you. It is one of the reasons why I am here.”

‘One of . . . ?’ Imrahil thought, but did not ask. That question would have to wait.

“I cannot read your thoughts now, but I would wager that the fear has gone. There is no longer any guilt in your heart when you lie in my arms. Something has changed.” 

Even as he said the words, Imrahil wondered where such boldness had come from. Yet remembering his own relief when the elf had encouraged him to talk at last, he knew that he was offering Legolas a gift, should the other choose to take it.

Legolas kept hold of his hand while he replied, slowly:

“Something has indeed changed, although you must know that my feelings for him have not. It is I who am different now. I made a decision, Imrahil, to live my life here on Middle Earth, not as a miserable broken-hearted wretch, but as one who can still take pleasure in beauty where he finds it. If I am to be judged for flouting the limits of my bond, it is a price I am willing to pay. Yet in my heart I cannot feel that what we do is wrong.”

“The gods would not be so cruel,” said Imrahil simply, knowing no other words to say, and he moved to kiss the elf gently.

As Legolas responded, his tongue lightly following the curve of the man’s parted lips, Imrahil sensed something more than the growing arousal of his body. A warm tide of affection filled him, as he realised that he was being allowed to feel the merest hint of the elf’s own contentment and desire. He held Legolas close, and marvelled once more at his fortune.

When they broke apart, Imrahil raised a hand and stroked the elf’s hair, rinsed free of salt in the stream’s clear waters, soft to his touch. Something about the moment led him to throw caution to the wind, and he finally asked the question that had plagued him for so long.

“Why me, Legolas? What have I done to merit this?”

“Can you not know?” the elf smiled. “You are a prize indeed, so tall and fair, and strong in body and spirit.”

“You flatter me, friend,” replied Imrahil. “Yet all those words may be applied, with far more accuracy, to any one out of hundreds of your kin.”

“And you wonder why I sought you out, when I am daily in their presence?”

Imrahil said nothing.

“Men live by more flexible rules than do my kind.” Legolas brought his hand to the man’s face and traced its lines as he spoke. “You can accept my commitment to another, and desire to be with me still, as another elf could not. Yet it is more than that. There is a quickness to your passion, a vitality in your spirit, that I would not find amongst my brethren; and I must admit that it pleases me greatly. It may have been your elven blood that drew me to you in Cormallen, but it is the man in you that delights me now.”

“Whatever twist of fate brought you to me,” Imrahil breathed, leaning into the gentle touch, “it has proved a blessing to us both.”

“You surprised me then, Imrahil, and touched me in ways you could not have known. I will admit that I have longed to come here, but felt that I should not; I had no wish to intrude on your life again. When Lothiriel spoke to me in Edoras, I felt that I was being offered a second chance, a chance that I knew I must take, but with great care.”

Imrahil pulled his head away, and looked long at his friend and lover. 

“I thought that you were teasing me by holding back,” he said.

“Nay, not teasing. I had resolved to offer you friendship, to make amends, nothing more. But once I realised what you wanted, I had to be sure it was real, and more than a momentary weakness.”

The man moved a hand to caress the elf’s cheek, softly. 

“Do you not know how lucky I count myself, to have this time with you? If this is a weakness, it runs through me to my very soul,” he said, quietly.

Legolas again lifted a hand to cover his.

“I consider myself to be the lucky one,” he said. “for I had not thought to find such ease for my heart. I thank you, my friend, for giving me this.”

Imrahil found himself to be greatly moved by the elf’s words. He realised that he wanted to enfold Legolas, soothe him, to show him the truth of his own heart. Gently wrapping his arms around his lover, he pulled him down, to lie in his embrace on the blanket.

“Gladly will I give you what you seek, Legolas, if I am able,” he whispered into the strangely shaped ear, so symbolic of all the differences between them. “For you too have given me something that I had thought was lost to me. You have shown me that beauty and joy are still to be found in my life.”

Legolas turned to him then, and their lips met again in a long, gentle kiss. At last the elf’s head fell to Imrahil’s shoulder and for a while they lay quietly, listening only to the relentless voice of the sea.


	6. Chapter 6

There was barely a pause after the brisk knock before the door opened, and Belgan stepped quietly into the chamber. His bow was a masterpiece of understatement.

Merenin grinned. The old steward had performed his role at the castle faultlessly for at least forty years, but nobody could accuse him of being servile, and the younger man loved him for it.

“Sire,” Belgan said. “The prince returns; he is riding towards the gate.”

“Good news indeed!” replied Merenin. “I shall go down to meet him. Please send word to my lady, for she will wish to join me.”

The news was hardly unexpected, since it was two weeks to the day since Imrahil’s departure with Legolas. Nonetheless, Merenin was conscious of a brief flicker of relief at his father’s return. It was almost as if the roles of parent and child had been reversed in the last fourteen days. Smiling at the thought, he headed out of the room and down towards the castle gates.

Lelneth met him in the courtyard, her smile as broad as his own. She was looking particularly lovely, dressed in a dark green gown that complemented her creamy skin tones and brought out the hint of red in her hair. Taking her hand, he could not resist pulling her towards him to whisper for her ear alone,

“You are so beautiful, my wife. Thank the Valar the prince has returned; I shall have time now to give you all the attention you deserve.”

The slightest shiver of her flesh as he stroked her wrist told him that she understood him fully.

“Be sure that I shall hold you to your word, my husband,” she said silkily, but with a wicked look that promised more than the simplest of pleasures.

Merenin fought off the urge to ravish his wife there and then on the stone-flagged ground, and sent a silent prayer of thanks to whichever gods had seen fit to send him this passionate gem of a woman.

At the gate, Belgan cleared his throat. The couple laughed in unison, and hurried, hand in hand, to join him.

Imrahil and Legolas were riding slowly up the long avenue, the man graciously acknowledging the greetings of his citizens, the elf looking about him with a quizzical air. 

As he watched them, two things struck Merenin forcefully.

Legolas looked exactly as he had done on the morning when they had left, tall, fair, and utterly composed. His skin was perhaps glowing a little more brightly, but it had not darkened in the sun. His hair was once again braided in simple fashion, with not a strand out of place. To look at him, one might think that he had merely trotted down to the end of the road and back.

The change in Imrahil, on the other hand, was astonishing. He was tanned to a handsome dark gold, which made his teeth and eyes seem to sparkle as he smiled at those around him. His hair, which hung thickly below his shoulders, was streaked with colours of the sun; he wore no tunic, and his shirt was loose and open at the neck. It was the change in his manner, however, that was most striking. Even at a distance of many paces, it was clear that the grey, haunted man, who had roamed the castle these past three years, was nowhere to be seen. 

Quite simply, his father looked happy.

Merenin cast a sideways glance at Lelneth, who appeared to be suppressing a grin. 

“A good plan, do you not think?” she murmured from the side of her mouth, but then raised an eyebrow.

“Look at his hair!” she hissed, and her expression became suddenly thoughtful.

Merenin felt his own eyebrow mimic that of his wife as he saw what she had referred to. His father’s hair had been drawn back from either side of his face into a small plait; the plaits were tucked neatly behind the ears, and tipped with silver. As far as Merenin was aware, such an elvish style had never before been seen on a man of Dol Amroth, and for some reason which he could not identify, it disturbed him acutely.

There was little time to ponder the matter further, since the pair had all but reached the castle gates, and his father was dismounting with a shout of greeting and a wide smile. Seeing the look of relaxed contentment on that much-loved face, Merenin forgot all concerns, and went to embrace his father with his heart full of uncomplicated joy.

At dinner that night the prince appeared in formal dress, but the infernal braids were once again in evidence. Throughout the six fine courses, and the merriment that accompanied their meal, Merenin found his eyes drawn repeatedly to his father’s hair. He tried to distract himself by focussing on Lelneth, as she joked with Legolas, waved her hands expressively while recounting some story to him, or listened with rapt absorption while he spoke. 

It was a measure of his confidence in his wife, he reflected, that he did not feel aggrieved at the single-minded attention she was paying to his father’s guest. He could not really blame her; his own brief experience in Minas Tirith had shown him that elves, whilst reputed to be aloof and superior, could be fascinating company when they so chose. He remembered clearly the silver-haired Lorien elf - Haldir, his name was - who had sat beside him at the coronation dinner and been so attentive and amusing, with his acerbic comments about the assembled company, and his interest in the details of Merenin’s own life. It had been something of a disappointment to him when Haldir had been called away to Lord Celeborn’s side, for some undisclosed reason, towards the end of the night. Merenin could not help but think that he would have learned much more about the ways of the fair folk, if they had continued their conversation over a bottle of wine in the palace gardens, as Haldir had suggested.

It seemed that Lelneth found Legolas every bit as charming now as Haldir had been to Merenin then. It came as little surprise to him, therefore, when his wife suggested that the elf should sing to them, once they had finished eating. 

Legolas made no attempt to demur. With a small bow to Lelneth, and another to the prince, he stood. 

“You should know, my lady, that being an elf, I do not need to be asked twice to sing.” He seemed to be enjoying some private amusement at these words. “What would you hear from me?”

It was Imrahil who replied.

“Sing to us of Nimrodel and Amroth, my friend,” he said.

Legolas nodded. 

“It is fitting, though I should warn you that I know only the first part of the song; it is inordinately long, even by the standards of my kin.”

He walked around the table and spoke softly with the minstrel, humming a few notes, and gesturing with his long hands in explanation. The man’s look of awe rapidly faded to one of professional interest, and he strummed quietly on his lute before nodding to Legolas, with a confident smile. 

The elf turned towards the company at the table as the minstrel played three haunting chords; and the song began.

‘An elven-maid there was of old,  
A shining star by day,  
Her mantle white was hemmed with gold,  
Her shoes of silver-grey’

Legolas had a beautiful voice, clear and full, as his speech might have suggested. His singing was not only tuneful, but full of emotion. Merenin felt prickles rise on the back of his neck as he listened, and his eyes were fixed to the serene, slim figure before him. In his silvery coloured tunic and dark boots, blond hair on his shoulders, the elf truly looked the part of the magical woodland prince; it was impossible not to admire him.

As the verses went on, and the minstrel’s voice joined the elf’s in wordless harmony, Merenin sat back in his chair, allowing the melancholy beauty of the song to wash over him. He reached for his wineglass, and turned to glance at his father.

Somehow he stopped himself from dropping the glass, as the look on the prince’s face sent a jolt of realisation through him. In an instant, he understood why his father had returned from his journey looking so happy and relaxed, and why the silver-tipped braids had worried him so much. 

Imrahil’s hands had not the skill to weave such delicate adornments into his own hair. No, those plaits had been put there by other hands, by long pale fingers well versed in such arts. Fingers which had no doubt brushed the hair back from his father’s smiling face, before going on to other, more intimate touches…. Merenin felt heat rising in his face; his blood sang in his ears and his stomach churned, as he tried to suppress the images and tell himself it was not true.

Looking again at his father, who was staring unwaveringly at the beauteous elf, Merenin knew he could not deny the obvious reality. The expression on the prince’s face was a curious mixture of hunger and satisfaction. He knew it well, for in the course of their two year marriage Lelneth had often gazed at him with a similar intensity in her wide green eyes. Inevitably she would recognise it too, for Merenin, with his face so like to his father’s, no doubt wore the same mask of partially sated lust when he looked on his wife in the privacy of their chambers.

The song had finished, and his father was speaking to him.

“Merenin? What ails you, my son?” his voice held genuine concern.

“’Tis nothing, Father,” Merenin replied, rapidly composing himself and taking a deep swig of wine. “The emotion of the song affected me, that is all.”

The rest of the evening passed in a blur, Merenin responding to his father’s questions but offering little conversational substance of his own. Perhaps Lelneth had not realised the dreadful truth, for she, at least, seemed to be completely at ease. She was apparently aware of his own preoccupation, however, for as soon as it was polite to do so, she excused herself from the company on the grounds of weariness.

Merenin stood gratefully at his wife’s side and bowed to his father and the elf as he bade them goodnight. On the way out of the hall, Lelneth gestured surreptitiously to a servant, and asked for a bottle of wine and two glasses to be brought to their chambers. After that she fell strangely silent, and they walked up the stairs without a word.

Inside their own rooms, the door closed behind them, Lelneth fell into her husband’s arms and claimed his mouth before he could open it to speak. Her knowing hands moved across his back and her warm, soft body pressed into his, as their tongues entwined and the heat between them grew. As she pulled away and smiled gently at him, Merenin realised that the turmoil in his gut had subsided.

Before he could start the conversation, there was a knock at the door. Lelneth gestured to him to sit down on the couch, and went to receive the tray. She poured two glasses of the dark red wine and handed one to him, settling gracefully at his side. 

“So,” she said, calmly. “Speak to me.”

He hardly knew where to start.

“Did you see it?” it was as much as he could manage.

“See what, my love?”

“The look on my father’s face.” He could not meet her eye as he said the words.

“Yes, I saw it. What did it say to you?” her voice was gentle, neutral.

Merenin put his glass down on the small side table, for his hand was beginning to shake. He turned to look at his wife.

“It said that there is something between my father and the elf that is more than friendship,” he said at last.

If he had been hoping for denial or disbelief from Lelneth, he was disappointed. She nodded.

“Exactly as I thought,” she said. “I will admit, I had wondered, when we first returned here, but I was not certain until tonight.”

In his amazement, Merenin did not attempt to keep the anger from his voice.

“You thought it, but said nothing to me, and yet encouraged me to send them away together?”

As soon as he had said it, he regretted his harsh tone, though not the words. Lelneth made no reply, but simply sat, regarding him with a look of something like pity. The air in the room seemed very still as the moment drew out in silence between them.

At last she spoke, very quietly, each word carefully measured.

“Can you give me one good reason why not?”

For a second, Merenin could think of nothing to say. His voice, when it came, sounded weak and petulant to his own ears.

“A thousand reasons! It is preposterous . . . ”

His wife smiled then, and placed a hand on his.

“Why? Can you not see how happy he is? Would you deny him that?”

Lost for words once more, Merenin wondered briefly which was more baffling; his father’s relationship with the elf, or his wife’s calm acceptance of it.

Lelneth took a long drink of her wine, and put the glass down with a sigh.

“Merenin, my love, it seems to me that you are too noble and intelligent to fall prey to such petty prejudice. Your father is a good man, and has been sad and lonely for too many months. Can you blame him for finding some happiness with such a one as Legolas? He too is noble, and true-hearted, and beauteous beyond doubt in body and spirit. Perhaps such love is not so rare amongst elves. It is not uncommon between men either, as I am sure you must know, even amongst the strongest knights and warriors.”

“And how, exactly, did you become so knowledgeable about the ways of fighting men?” he responded, astonished by her words.

Her eyes seemed to wander to one side of the room as she replied.

“I should not tell you this, but it may help,” she paused. “My brother has a . . . friend, a warrior like himself. They have been happy together for some years now.”

“Tamor?” cried Merenin, incredulously, “You are telling me that Tamor loves a man?” 

“Please, Merenin, promise that you will never tell him that I told you.”

“Of course not, Lelneth, what do you take me for? But . . . ” he stopped, running out of words to express his astonishment at the thought of Tamor, the stocky, broad shouldered fighter, in the arms of another man. Was nothing certain in the world?

“I do not know what to think,” he said, feeling quite defeated.

“There is nothing to think,” replied Lelneth simply. “What others do is their affair; it harms you not, so why should it concern you? Put aside your revulsion; be glad of your father’s happiness if you love him truly, and do not dwell on the details that disturb you.”

‘Words easily spoken,’ thought Merenin, but as usual, he found his wife’s logic impossible to refute. 

In the darkness of the night, as Lelneth slept peacefully at his side, matters did not seem to be quite so straightforward. Try as he might to set aside the unsettling images, his mind returned unerringly to those long white fingers, gently caressing a smiling face before tucking chestnut-coloured hair behind a sensitive ear. Merenin knew that he could not keep a secret from his wife, and if she asked him, he would be compelled to speak the truth. At least she was patently enlightened enough to cope with it. However, it would not be easy to tell her that he had identified the root of his disquiet, and that it had nothing whatever to do with revulsion.

Rolling onto his side, he moved closer to Lelneth, and buried his face in her abundant hair. There may be nothing certain in the world, but he would not forget that he was a lucky man. He would deal with his own feelings with the help of his wise, loving wife; and tomorrow he would talk honestly with his father.


	7. Chapter 7

Warm hands stroking his thighs woke him, some time before daybreak. No sudden jolt into consciousness, this, but a slow, insistent pull drawing him gently from his dreamless rest into the reality of his pleasure. For a while he lay without thought as the hands, knowing and firm, caressed his hips and belly before returning to his thighs and lingering there. 

When long fingers delved into the space between his legs, and brushed leisurely upwards to fondle the tender sac and the flesh behind, his unwitting response betrayed his wakefulness, and he finally opened his eyes.

The chamber lay in darkness, but for the faint glow emanating from his lover’s pale skin, and the shimmering fall of hair that partly covered Legolas’s face, as he bent in concentration to his task. Imrahil remained still, feeling himself harden and swell, the convulsive heat of desire building in his gut, as the elf’s hands continued their tantalising work. Palms slid across skin, now feather-light, now roughly dragging; fingers kneaded, nails gently scraped; maddening touches everywhere except his aching cock.

Just as he reached the point where he knew he could keep still and silent no longer, but must cry out for relief or reach to bring it himself, the elf bent lower, soft hair fell across him, and he felt the warm, moist tongue lick him once, slowly and deliberately, from base to tip. He groaned, shuddering with helpless lust, as Legolas raised his head once more, and spoke.

“Good morning, lover.” The voice alone was almost enough to make him come.

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly before replying.

“Our exertions must have adversely affected your mind, my lovely elf, if you are not aware that it is still night time.” 

“I have retained some small measure of wit, my beautiful man, in spite of your proximity,” Legolas retorted briskly. “Dawn approaches and I should return to my chamber, but I would watch you lose yourself in pleasure once more before I go.”

“I cannot argue with such a proposition,” said Imrahil, with a dramatic sigh. “Therefore I must submit.”

Without warning, Legolas wrapped a hand around his cock and held it in a firm grip, causing Imrahil to gasp and arch his back.

“Oh, not yet,” the elf murmured, his tone dangerously smooth, “but you shall do so before long, I assure you.”

It was only later, when Legolas had silently closed the door of the chamber behind him, that Imrahil’s thoughts regained sufficient clarity for him to reflect on the wonderfully unpredictable nature of his lover. Each encounter, it seemed, brought something quite new, awakening responses that he could not have imagined lying dormant within him. 

At times the elf would lie willing and compliant in his arms, his expressive blue eyes encouraging Imrahil to claim him forcefully, as on that first golden afternoon. Just as frequently, however, Legolas would assume total control, leaving the man to abandon himself to rapture in the demanding warrior’s hands. On occasion their lovemaking was slow and sensuous, fuelled, it seemed, as much by the strength of their friendship as by the fires of their lust; while sometimes the burning need between them threatened to consume them both, and they fell upon each other in hungry pursuit of a rapid, violent climax. 

Playful and intense, teasing and compassionate, earthy and mysterious; Legolas was all of these and so much more besides. To say that Imrahil was captivated by him would be to understate the truth.

His mind full of images of the elf, the prince fell into a light, fitful sleep, fragmented dreams of passion tormenting him in the absence of his lover. When he awoke the morning light was streaming through the window and the castle was coming alive. He was unsurprised to find that he was hard and needful once more, and release came quickly in his own hand, as he recalled Legolas’s exhaustive conquest of him in those moments before dawn.

Marvelling at his own capacity for lustful excess, Imrahil finally staggered from his bed, and called for a tub of fresh water to sluice his fevered skin.

After breakfast the prince, his mind once more on the business of the day, headed for his study. Legolas had been the very soul of propriety at the table, and afterwards had tactfully excused himself, saying that he wished to meditate at the sea’s edge for a while. Merenin and Lelneth had apparently not yet emerged from their chambers. Imrahil smiled to himself to think that even two weeks of days spent apart, while his son took his place in the formalities of the court, must have been difficult for the besotted pair.

Faithful Heledir sat at the desk, a large pile of papers beside him. As the prince entered the room he looked up, and gave such a broad smile of approving welcome that Imrahil was momentarily quite taken aback. He greeted the secretary warmly and took his seat across from him as the man cleared his throat.

“Sire,” Heledir bowed his head respectfully. “It makes my heart happy to see you looking so well.”

Imrahil kept his expression neutral, in spite of his astonishment at the directness of this remark. He neither liked nor expected servility from his staff, but the shy, serious secretary had always adopted a manner both formal and deferential in his presence.

“Thank you, Heledir,” he said gravely. “Now, tell me what new matters await my perusal.”

The prince and his secretary were barely half way through the stack of documents when a confident knock at the study door announced his son’s arrival.

“Ah, Merenin,” Imrahil said, not needing to turn to know whose tread was crossing the stone floor. “I had hoped you would join us.”

He looked up as the younger man’s hand rested briefly on his shoulder, and smiled into the grey-green eyes that were so similar to his own. Merenin returned the smile.

“Father. I suppose you want me to explain all that took place in your absence?” 

“That is hardly necessary; I trust your judgement entirely. However, this,” he waved a scroll bearing the seal of Pinnath Gelin, “requires some thought. Did you speak to the messenger? Did he elaborate?”

For a while father and son pored over the papers together. As ever, Imrahil found himself enjoying Merenin’s ready wit and perceptive comments. His son’s merry personality concealed a mind as sharp as a newly honed sword when it came to political intrigue and diplomatic initiative. It occurred to him that with Merenin to act as regent, there was really no reason why he could not travel from the city more often. A trip to Ithilien in the spring was, after all, looking more attractive by the day.

As the last document was handed to Heledir for filing, Merenin turned towards Imrahil and looked him squarely in the eye. 

“Now, by your leave, Father, I would talk with you alone.” he said.

Imrahil did not need to wonder what the subject of the talk would be. Since childhood, Merenin had found it hard to conceal anything of import from him; whether because of some inherited elven trait in their thoughts, or simply due to the normal human closeness of father and son, he could not say. He had been well aware of the cause of Merenin’s unease at dinner the night before, but had not attempted to broach the issue, knowing that his son would come to him in time. Whatever faults he may have, Merenin was not afraid to face difficult facts.

“Heledir, you have worked hard enough this morning,” said the prince. “Go now, and spend the afternoon at leisure; enjoy the sun on your face for a change.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said Heledir, with a deep bow. “I may do just that.”

The two men watched as the door closed behind the departing secretary.

“The change in him is most uncanny,” said Imrahil thoughtfully. “Did you not mark it?”

“The same could be said of you, Father,” responded Merenin in a wry tone.

Imrahil was impressed; his son was wasting no time in coming to the point. He stood, moved from the desk to one of the more comfortable chairs, and gestured to Merenin to do the same. Once they sat facing each other, he spoke.

“And that, I assume, is the reason you wished to speak with me?”

Merenin nodded. “You are happy.” It was a simple statement of fact, with no trace of query.

“Happier than I have been for some time, yes.”

“Because of Legolas.” 

Imrahil stared at his son, reading the tension and emotion on his face. It was a while before he answered.

“Yes, and because of the insight he has given me into my life,” he said at last.

After another pause, Merenin continued,

“Do you love him?”

Imrahil had expected this question. In spite of the fact that he had deliberately avoided asking himself the same thing a hundred times in the past two weeks, he had at least given the matter enough thought to have prepared an answer for his son.

“There are many shades of love, Merenin,” he said, with a slight sigh. “Legolas is noble and wise, strong and fair; it would be nigh impossible not to love him, in some fashion.”

“I think you are evading my question, Father,” replied his son. “You understand my meaning.”

“Then let me give you the answer you seek, in spite of your unwillingness to ask directly. He has not replaced your mother in my affections, nor will he ever do so, you need have no fear of that. When I gave my heart to her, it was a lifetime commitment.”

Imrahil did not speak of the promise he had made to his wife on her deathbed: to carry on living life to the full, and to allow himself to love again when the time came. Glantathar had never shied from the knowledge that her husband would likely outlive her by decades, and had told him many times that the thought of him suffering alone for another seventy years was far harder to bear than the prospect of him finding peace in the arms of another. She could not have expected this particular turn of events, but he did not believe that she would have been wholly dismayed by it.

Not for the first time, Merenin’s next words came strangely close to his father’s thoughts.

“Mother was nothing if not generous,” he said slowly. “I do not suppose that she would begrudge you some happiness now.”

“I realise how difficult it must be for you to accept this,” Imrahil said. “It came as surprise enough to me.”

Merenin turned his face from his father’s gaze at these words, and Imrahil heard a note of warning in his mind. His son’s discomfort was unmistakeable, but there was an emotion intertwined with it that he could not place; and it worried him.

“Does he love you?” Merenin asked.

Did Legolas love him? Another question that the prince had anticipated, but one which was not so easily answered. That the elf liked and respected him was beyond doubt, and his affection was freely given. But what could love mean to such a one as he, bound for eternity in spirit to another man? He had not asked, nor did he expect Legolas to volunteer such information. Indeed, in their quiet moments of peace at the waterside, he had come to realise that it did not matter what this gift was called; it was a thing of the present, to be taken and enjoyed, without the stifling burden of question and anxiety.

“I do not know,” he said, deciding on complete honesty. “We have not discussed the subject.”

Father and son stared at each other for a long moment.

“I would not have you hurt,” said Merenin at last.

Imrahil smiled. “You need have no fear on that score,” he said. “I have few illusions about this friendship and Legolas is an honourable soul. My trust in him is absolute.”

His son nodded. “That, at least, I can understand,” he conceded.

The younger man walked across to the window and gazed out at the sea before posing his next question. “Does he intend to stay here?” he asked tentatively, then turned sharply at Imrahil’s sudden laughter.

“Gods, no!” said the prince. “I am not about to install him as my consort, if that is what you mean.” 

Merenin’s irritation was obvious in his reply. “I meant no such thing! I only wondered . . .”

“I know, I am sorry, Merenin. But can you imagine Ancened’s face?”

He was pleased to see his son manage a smile at that.

“Legolas has his responsibilities in Ithilien, and I must think of my land and my people, for all I have taken leave of my duties these past weeks. It will not be long before he returns to his kin, and life will continue as normal. This is a moment out of time, an interlude, if you like.” 

He spoke lightly, but could not suppress a feeling of melancholy at the sound of his own words. There could be no doubt about the eventual outcome of this affair, it was true; the only question was how long they had left together.

It was clear from the set of Merenin’s shoulders that the news was something of a relief to him. His face and voice, however, held concern.

“It will not be easy for you,” he observed.

“I have faced worse trials,” Imrahil said, gently.

Returning to his seat, Merenin brought the conversation round to the subject they so often tried to avoid.

“How do you think my brother will respond to your friendship with Legolas?” he asked grimly. “I do not foresee it being easy for him to accept.”

“Probably not,” replied the prince, “But accept it he must, for I will not hide it from him.”

“Have you told Legolas about Celaeren?” 

“Of course.” There had been time enough for such talk during those long two weeks, even with the distraction of bodily pleasures so close at hand. There were few subjects they had not covered in some form or another; and Imrahil had found it soothing to talk to the wise and kindly elf about his fears for his younger son.

“Elves are great healers, are they not?” Merenin asked. “Is there anything he can suggest to help?”

“I am afraid that Legolas is no expert in the healing arts, and besides, Celaeren’s malady is not known amongst elven kind. They are fond of ale and wine, and it is not unheard of for an elf to become foolish through drink, but it seems they do not experience the compulsion that afflicts your brother.” Imrahil spoke sadly; the same hopeful thought had occurred to him, and Legolas’s response had been a disappointment.

“He did offer the observation that this is firstly a sickness of the spirit, and that the clue to his cure lies there.”

“We both know that to be true,” said Merenin. “But how to begin when he resists all offers of kindness? You have tried so much, and I . . . ”

“How many times have we spoken thus?” said Imrahil wearily. “You know it is not your fault; you cannot carry guilt for the sheer accident of your birthright.”

“I know that, father, yet his grievance cannot but affect me.”

“I understand, Merenin, for I feel it too; yet we must believe that in the end love will be stronger than bitterness.”

They sat for a time in silence, while Imrahil recalled the elf’s further words on the subject. When he had suggested that there was one who might be able to help, Imrahil had at first rejected the notion as ridiculous. The King of Gondor had, after all, a thousand more pressing concerns to deal with. Legolas, however, had been insistent.

‘You are a friend and a noble comrade; you stood at his side in the hour of need. He cares for you and would willingly offer you help. And though he wears the mantle of a great king, Aragorn will always have the soul of a skilled and gentle healer. Well does he know the ways and failings of men; if anyone can help Celaeren, it is he.’

The passion in the elf’s tone, as he had spoken thus of his true love, had threatened to break Imrahil’s heart, even as he had stored the words away to ponder them later. He had wondered briefly if his own voice held such vivid emotion when he talked of Glantathar.

Thinking back on the conversation now, the prince found himself nursing the faintest spark of hope. If he did ride to Ithilien and Gondor in the spring, he could at least ask Aragorn’s advice. The peace was holding fast and nights in Minas Tirith were long and full of good cheer; there would be ample time for honest talk with the wise and compassionate king. Maybe nothing would come of it, but at least Imrahil would not be too proud to ask. If he had learned nothing else from Legolas in these few glorious days, he had come to understand that he gained nothing by holding his cares fast to his heart; if fate – or the gods - had blessed him with such extraordinary friends, perhaps it was time for him to use the gift more fruitfully.

For now, however, there remained his older son, who had overcome his own unease to face his father and set matters to rights between them. 

Imrahil stood and Merenin did likewise. Smiling, father and son embraced, with almost palpable relief. His hands on Merenin’s shoulders, the prince stood back.

“My son, you are ever a joy to me,” he said. “And I thank you for coming here this morning to speak of these things. Your open heart does you credit. I am sorry for your discomfort, but hope you will find it within you to understand.”

“Give credit where it is due, Father,” Merenin replied with a grin. “I would not have found it so easy to accept had my wife not taught me some sense.”

Imrahil laughed. “You are a lucky man, indeed,” he said. “I do not have to tell you to cherish her.”

“No, thank you, my lord,” said Merenin, making a deep bow that mimicked Heledir’s with disturbing accuracy. “And by your leave, I may go now to do just that.”

As his son left the study, Imrahil reflected on all that had been left unsaid between them. Perhaps it was better this way, with Merenin’s acceptance and understanding tacitly implied rather than made explicit. He had the distinct impression, however, that there was rather more to it than that. 

‘No matter,’ he thought, moving to the door to summon Neledhen, ‘No doubt all will become clear eventually. It is only a question of time.’

With that he went into the bedchamber to change his clothes, before venturing down to the beach to find his lover.


	8. Chapter 8

Heledir stared into his glass, and wished, for the tenth time at least, that he had refused his brother-in-law’s invitation and stayed at the castle that night. 

There was nothing wrong with the ale itself, of course; not for nothing did the Ship and Swan have a good reputation amongst the city’s drinkers. The clientele left rather more to be desired, however. Although the night was yet young, copious quantities of beer and wine had already been consumed, and the groups at several tables were becoming increasingly boisterous. Heledir felt himself to be acutely out of place, and wished that the hour would pass quickly so that he could excuse himself without being too discourteous.

It was not that he did not like his brother-in-law. Arendel was a decent enough man, and treated Heledir’s sister well; but he had little in common with the secretary himself, and would not have sought his company simply for the pleasure of it. Heledir had known from the outset that this was a meeting with a definite agenda, and had agreed to attend only for his sister’s sake.

As the oldest and most well-educated child in the family, he was quite accustomed to being asked for advice on a wide variety of subjects. His position at the castle, at the right hand of the prince, gave him a unique status amongst his relatives and acquaintances - one which he would have been far happier without. Discretion came naturally to Heledir, and he admired Prince Imrahil with a fervour that came close to adoration. As a result, he found the frequent requests for privileged information, covering anything from pure gossip to matters of business, almost painful. At the same time, his quiet and self-effacing manner made it hard for him to rebuff such demands outright; thus over the years he had become highly skilled in the art of using many words to say virtually nothing. Tonight was no exception to the rule.

He took a swig of the rich, dark brew, hoping that it might relax him a little. If there had been no reason for him to guard his speech, he might have drained the glass and demanded another, finding some peace in gentle intoxication. In reality he could do no such thing; decent as Arendel was, he wanted information as they always did, and would have no hesitation about prying it out of him in a drunkenly careless moment.

He listened to the other man’s story about a complicated land acquisition on the Anfalas border, and asked a few pertinent questions, enough to feign interest. When the inevitable request for advice came, he spoke for a while in general terms, measuring his words carefully. He took care not to betray his knowledge of a report, which had landed on the prince’s desk only a week or two before, detailing the interests of a certain wealthy southerner in the same area.

Arendel was no fool, and Heledir could sense his disappointment at the vague response. No doubt he was well aware that the secretary knew far more than he was willing to tell. Heledir felt some sympathy for the man, who was only trying to provide for his family, Heledir’s own kin at that. Nonetheless, he could not afford to weaken; he would say nothing more. 

The conversation circled aimlessly for a while, before Arendel excused himself somewhat grumpily and left the table to relieve himself. Alone with his ale, Heledir surveyed the room cautiously, wondering briefly if he envied the carefree revellers around him, arguing, gossiping and flirting with the serving maids, without concern for their words. He knew it to be an idle thought, as he would not trade his position for any in Middle Earth, and as surely as he breathed he would never knowingly allow himself to let Prince Imrahil down.

A sudden commotion drew his eye to the men entering the tavern door. Catching sight of the individual at the centre of the group, arms around two of his friends as if for support, Heledir felt his heart sink down to his stomach. He dropped his eyes and hunched down over his glass, praying to remain unnoticed. From the corner of his eye he watched with relief as the noisy troupe settled at a table on the far side of the room, near the door, and as Prince Celaeren sank onto a bench with his back to him, he started to breathe again. He recognised at least two of the other young noblemen, but was quite sure that none of them would know him. 

It should have come as no surprise to Heledir to see Dol Amroth’s youngest prince here, in one of the city’s finest taverns. Celaeren had returned from Anfalas some three days before, and it had been clear from the first evening that his trip had done nothing to reduce his appetite for fine wine and ale. Be that as it may, the possibility had not crossed the secretary’s mind; but now that the prince was here, he knew quite well that it was not a turn of events to be welcomed.

Heledir picked up his glass and drank in earnest, determined to drain it quickly. He would finish his ale, and as soon as Arendel came back, he would make some excuse and leave. The night would end without incident, and he would return to the castle.

It soon became apparent why his brother-in-law had been gone so long, for when Arendel returned, he was carrying two brimming glasses, and showed no signs of setting them down.

“Come, Heledir,” he said, “I have some business to do with my neighbours over there.” 

He gestured with his head towards a group of farming types sitting near the prince and his friends.

“Will you join us? I am sorry, but I urgently need to speak with them and it will not take long.”

Heledir shook his head, trying to suppress his anxiety. Most likely Arendel had not noticed Prince Celaeren in the noisy party by the door, and Heledir had no wish to draw his attention to the royal presence.

“No, better that you conclude your business in peace, and join me again when you finish,” he said firmly.

Arendel looked narrowly at him, but placed one of the tankards before him without comment, then crossed the room to his neighbour’s table.

Later, Heledir would wonder why he did not simply leave the drink and walk quietly out of the tavern. Hindsight and wisdom so often go hand in hand; but on this occasion his every instinct was giving him the same message, at the time when action would have been appropriate. He could easily have slipped away unnoticed, and contacted Arendel later to offer his apologies; his brother-in-law would not have been impressed, but nothing terrible would have come of it.

Yet instead he stayed, sipping his drink, watching the group of noblemen with grim fascination as they called for more ale and wine, lunged at the passing serving maids and made extravagant gestures as they laughed and sang. Quite clearly they were all inebriated, although Celaeren seemed rather less animated than the others.

Eventually it occurred to Heledir that he would be less likely to be seen if his back was towards those whom he wished to avoid. Accordingly he moved to the other bench and stared unseeingly at the wall before him, wondering, as he had so many times before, what would become of the unhappy prince. 

Heledir had grown up in the castle, since his father and mother were both in service there. He was some eight years older than Celaeren, and had many vivid memories of the boy as he grew from infancy to young adulthood. The prince had been a happy, lively child, always laughing and playing ingenious pranks on his brother and the other children of the castle. He had adored Merenin; ten years his senior, the older prince had been his idol, his greater strength, speed and wit setting the targets for Celaeren himself to aspire towards.

It was said that the parents knew as soon as the baby was born, and as the boy grew, it rapidly became clear to everyone around him that he would never match his brother. At what stage Celaeren himself realised that he had not inherited all the royal gifts of the house of Dol Amroth, Heledir could never be sure. Certainly he must have known many years before the first growth of dark hair on his face, the clearest sign of his purely mortal heritage, appeared. 

It was no surprise, of course, to anyone else in the castle. Heledir’s father had explained to him quite early on that only one or two in any generation of royal children carried the elven blood in their veins. Princess Lothiriel, lovely and wise as she was, did not have it; but unlike her younger brother, it seemed that she did not find the fact a cause for bitterness.

Celaeren had grown into a tall and handsome young man, dark haired and grey eyed like his Numenorean ancestors, traits he shared with the majority of the upper classes of Belfalas. In a crowd of men, he would stand out as a nobleman of high birth. But next to his father and brother, with their strikingly angular, smooth-skinned faces and their unusual long-limbed grace, he looked almost commonplace. 

He had trained hard, always striving to equal his brother in the arts of war, never allowing himself any leeway for Merenin’s natural advantage. For years he had driven himself relentlessly, but at some point, the fact that he could never be all that his brother was had undone him. Bursts of violent temper and cruel wit signalled his resentment, and he began to drink heavily.

While Princess Glantathar had lived, the problem had been limited to the occasional scuffle in a tavern after a night of heavy drinking, or the embarrassment of the prince being escorted to his chamber after excessive behaviour at dinner in the Great Hall. After the death of his beloved mother, however, Celaeren had slipped further under the control of his addiction, and there seemed to be little that could be done to help him. 

The young prince had gathered around him a group of noblemen’s sons who shared his love of ale and wine. Heledir could well believe that some of them also nursed grievances as bitter as Celaeren’s own; he had enjoyed the study of history, and knew well that men were ever prone to jealous resentment, especially where long life, health and strength were concerned. Privately the secretary thought that living twice as long as all those around you would be more curse than blessing; but he realised that there were far too many who did not see it that way.

Whatever their motivations, Celaeren’s clique saw to it that his behaviour was allowed to continue. If Prince Imrahil tried to stop his son drinking by restricting his access to alcohol, there would always be somebody to supply him with a glass or a bottle. Short of locking the young man up entirely, a measure which Heledir knew he would never be persuaded to take, the prince could not keep his son apart from his nemesis. He therefore tried to limit the damage, setting his most trusted guards to watch Celaeren discreetly, with instructions to step in if matters got out of hand.

Strangely, there seemed to be no guards present tonight, unless they were waiting surreptitiously outside the tavern. Heledir had the uneasy feeling that this was not the case, and that they had somehow been shaken off by the group of young men much earlier in the evening. If this was so, there was all the more reason for him to creep out of the tavern and return to the castle, before Celaeren and his friends grew even more raucous. 

He lifted the glass to his lips for one last swig before leaving, but a hand laid without warning on his shoulder caused him to start violently, and drops of ale spattered on his chest. He froze, heart pounding, at the sound of the very last voice he wanted to hear.

“King-fisher!” Celaeren said in his unmistakeable mocking tones. “What brings you here so far from your nest?”

As Heledir turned, he could smell the wine on the prince’s breath, along with the strange unhealthy sweetness that seemed always to lurk around the man. The hand on his shoulder was heavy, and the words deliberately slow. Daring a glance at the prince’s face, Heledir saw that the grey eyes were fully focussed on him, and held a strange, intense expression. He was not completely intoxicated, then, but no doubt the wine had put him in a dangerous, unpredictable mood.

Two of the other noblemen stood behind the prince, to either side of him. One was a man of some twenty-five years, whom Heledir vaguely recognised. The other, with his gingery-red hair and beard, did not appear to be a man of Belfalas at all. Both were grinning broadly, and apparently waiting for their leader to speak again.

“S..s..sire,” Heledir managed to stutter, nausea rising in his stomach as he wondered how he could possibly escape.

Celaeren turned to his red-haired companion. “This, my friends, is my father’s most trusted servant, his faithful secretary, the . . . reliable . . . Master Kingfisher,” he said. “He who is privy to all the secrets of the royal household.”

The two men sniggered, as the prince leaned heavily on Heledir’s shoulder and lifted his leg unsteadily over the bench to sit astride it, facing the secretary, uncomfortably close to him. 

“So tell me, Master Kingfisher,” Celaeren leaned in closer, causing Heledir to flinch away before he could stop himself. “What do you make of our lovely visitor from the North?”

Rigid with dismay, Heledir sat speechless. Of course Celaeren would ask him about the elf. Since the younger prince’s return, the atmosphere in the castle had been unusually tense, and Celaeren had seemed quietly sullen, watching Prince Legolas intently during mealtimes in the Great Hall. Heledir could not understand why the elf remained at the castle under the circumstances; he was due to leave for Ithilien any day now, and surely the young man’s attitude could not have escaped him.

“Well?” said Celaeren, placing his hand on Heledir’s arm and shoving him lightly. The secretary realised that he was not going to be allowed to remain silent.

“My lord,” he said, desperately searching for non-committal words. “It is not for one such as me to comment on the royal guests.”

“Oh come now, Kingfisher,” the prince responded, his hand still in place, now taking a gripping hold. “I and my friends would hear your thoughts on my father’s new obsession.”

The vile insinuation behind the words made Heledir’s face burn and his eyes sting. Avoiding Celaeren’s gaze, he stared at the table and held his tongue.

“Come, speak,” the prince’s tone was threatening now, and the pressure of his hand increased. 

The stricken secretary was vaguely aware of the other two men standing close behind him, bending towards him to hear his answer.

“You sit all day in that study, and you hear everything that goes on. Tell us what you think of the pretty creature who has so thoroughly bewitched my fool of a father.”

Something in Heledir seemed to break at this, and he turned to face his tormentor. His voice, when it came, was clear and free of any hint of a stammer.

“Prince Legolas is a hero of the Great War,” he said. “He fought bravely at the King’s side, and he is both noble and wise. It seems to me that he is a most fitting friend for Prince Imrahil.” 

For a moment none of the men spoke. Heledir turned back to the table and sat, awaiting the terrible consequences of his overly bold words.

Suddenly Celaeren leaned even further in, until his face was almost touching Heledir’s. The alcohol fumes coming off him were almost overwhelming. 

The secretary closed his eyes as the prince hissed, “Friend? Is that what you think? Would not concubine be a better term? Or perhaps harlot?”

Heledir had not believed that his misery could become any deeper, but the prince had proved him wrong. He hung his head in shame, feeling the fingers digging into his arm, and prayed for the moment to end.

“Look at me, Heledir!” Celaeren’s tone was no longer sly, but cold, and full of command. The secretary had no choice but to turn and meet his gaze.

For a long while the two men stared at each other, Heledir at first struggling to keep his face still and to meet the bitterness in the other’s eyes without shying away. He swallowed hard, but held his silence. As the time went on, however, he found himself raising his head and his resolve strengthening. Let Celaeren strike him, let him do his worst. Heledir would not sully the names of his master and the elven prince by replying. Calm at the last, he waited for the blow to fall.

Suddenly Celaeren laughed loudly, and the clutching hand on his arm was removed, only to clap him soundly on the back. The prince held out a hand to one of his friends, and got to his feet with the man’s help.

“You serve my father well, Kingfisher,” he said, in an oddly warm tone.

“No doubt the same could be said of the elf,” responded the red-haired man with an unpleasant leer, and the three began to laugh as they turned back to their own table.

Heledir sat stock still for a few minutes, thanking the gods that his ordeal was over. Once he was sure that the other men must be settled in their places, he rose and turned towards the door. Arendel was still in conversation with his neighbours; across the smokey, bustling tavern he had apparently noticed nothing. Heledir made a rapid decision, pulled his cloak hood across his face, and scurried to the entrance without glancing at the tables to either side.

Once outside the tavern, he let his hood drop, stood for a moment breathing deeply in the clean night air, and allowed his eyes to close. They opened again suddenly, however, at the sound of a taunting voice at his side.

“Kingfisher!”

He whirled around to find the red-haired man, and another, tall and dark, unknown to him. His heart sank at the looks on their faces, and the certain knowledge of what was about to occur.

Before he could run, the redhead grabbed his arm and dragged him to the side of the alleyway.

“So you would defy your prince?” the man sneered. “It seems to me that you could use a lesson in humility.”

And so it began; a sharp rain of blows to his chest, stomach and arms, causing him to back into the wall and double over. Even through his fear and pain, Heledir realised that the men knew what they were doing, and were not aiming for lasting, serious harm. He knew he should be relieved at this, but instead felt only the humiliation of utter helplessness. 

At least it was over quickly. A final swinging punch connected with his face, snapping his head back and making him see stars. By the time he could focus once more on the scene around him, the men were gone, and he was alone in the alley, totally defeated, blood from his face mingling with his tears.

The walk back to the castle was difficult, but at least it seemed that the pains in his chest were the result of bruising, and that nothing was actually broken. When he reached home, he pulled his cloak hood up to avoid the friendly gaze of the guards at the gates, crept in through the kitchen entrance, and managed to steal through the quiet corridors to his tiny chamber without being detected. 

He cleaned himself up as well as he could and took himself despondently to bed, wondering what excuse he could possibly find to explain the black eye, which would no doubt be fully formed by the morning. As he shifted uncomfortably on the hard mattress, trying in vain to find a position in which his torso would ache a little less, he decided that a partial form of the truth would serve him best. He would say that he had been dragged into a tavern brawl against his will, by drunken men he did not know, and had received the punch while trying to flee. It was a common enough story; there was no reason why anybody should question it.

After two hours or so of tossing and turning, Heledir decided that trying to sleep was useless. The air in the chamber was stifling, and he could find no comfort in the bed. A sudden whim took him, and he knew at once how to find some respite from his unhappy thoughts, if nothing else.

Rising from the bed, he pulled on a pair of leggings under his nightshirt, and donned his cloak and boots. Down through the sleeping castle he went, to the tiny door where a guard dozed peacefully. Heledir had known him since childhood, and had no wish to bring him trouble, so he gently spoke the man’s name and told him of his wish. The guard nodded wearily, rubbing his eyes, then opened the door for him. 

Fresh salt air hit Heledir’s face as he descended the worn stone stairway. The night was still and quiet, the water, dark and mysterious, rippling gently under the moonlight. As ever, he found the sight both soothing and unsettling, the vastness of the ocean stilling his immediate thoughts, but waking in him instead a strange yearning, for lands and adventures yet unknown. He settled on a flat rock with his eyes on the horizon, and allowed his mind to empty of everything but the sea.

He did not know how much time had passed when he became aware of another’s presence. Turning his head slowly, he winced at the stiffness in his cold neck, then stopped, staring in disbelief at the figure beside him. 

Prince Legolas stood quite still, only a few feet away, looking directly at Heledir. The light of the moon was enough to give his white shirt and his skin a silvery colour, and to show the expression of gentle concern on his face.

Heledir leapt to his feet, barely stifling a yelp of pain at the sudden movement. “Prince Legolas, I am sorry, I . . .” straightening, he fought to pull himself together. “I am sorry, I did not know that you would be coming here. I shall go immediately.”

“Please, do not go.” The elf’s voice was quiet, yet full of musical depth that made Heledir shiver. “I should be most offended if you ran off so quickly. It is I who should apologise; I had no wish to disturb you.”

Something in his tone made Heledir sit down once more. He found that he could not take his eyes from the elf’s face, although he knew he should not be staring.

“Master Heledir, is it not?” Legolas said. 

The man could only nod in reply.

“Such a beautiful name,” the elf mused, and Heledir knew instantly that he would never again question his mother’s choice, which had led to so many unkind jibes at his expense over the years.

Prince Legolas took a step closer. “You are hurt,” he observed.

“It is nothing, sire, the result of a foolish tavern brawl, no more.” The man dropped his eyes as he spoke.

“You do not strike me as the sort of man to seek such trouble.” A shock ran through Heledir as the elf’s hand gently held his chin, and raised his face once more. 

“This eye needs some treatment,” Legolas said. “When we return to the castle, I will bring you some ointment for it. What of your other wounds? I could see that it hurt you to move.”

“Bruises, nothing more,” breathed Heledir, unable to resist the elf’s words, though he was deeply embarrassed to be the subject of such attention. 

To the man’s amazement, Legolas crouched down in front of him and moved the hand from his chin to his shoulder. “How did this fight happen?” he asked gently. “You are not a violent man.”

Heledir opened his mouth to tell his amended version of the truth, but what came out was rather different. Afterwards he would be unable to explain why he had said so much; at the time it simply seemed natural.

“I was in a tavern with my brother-in-law, when a group of men approached me. They questioned me and I could not turn them away, for there were men of . . . noble birth . . . amongst them. Yet I could not answer them as they wished, for their words would dishonour me and those I hold dear. Two of their number decided to each me a lesson in humility. There was nothing I could do. They were drunk, but strong.”

Legolas’s eyes, level with his own, gazed at him with compassion, as he sat numbed by his own lack of discretion.

“Do not worry, good Master Heledir,” the elf said. “It is better to speak of such things than to bear the pain alone. You may tell me more of it if you wish, or I can return to the castle and send for another to sit with you.”

“No!” Heledir forgot to speak politely in his terror. “I can tell nobody of it, least of all . . .” he stopped, realising what that what he was about to say would give away more than he wished. But the damage, it seemed, was already done, for the elf’s eyes widened in understanding. He wondered briefly whether Legolas was in fact reading his mind.

“I see,” the elf said sadly. “It does not surprise me that men speak badly of my friendship with the prince. We had foreseen it, but still it wearies my heart.”

After a pause Legolas spoke again. “Tell me, Master Heledir, there is much resentment towards elven-kind amongst the people of Belfalas, is there not?”

“Aye, men are foolish, as they ever were.” In spite of himself, the man warmed to the subject. “It seems we learn little from history. The bitterness that led to the fall of Numenor is still to be found here, wherever a group of malcontents may gather.”

“Do you not understand it?” asked the elf.

“Yes and no,” replied Heledir. “I understand that they envy your immortality, seeing it as the greatest of gifts. Yet I cannot share that view. How weary must the prospect of eternal life be, even if your kin are granted the same, and you never have to stand by helplessly, as those you love die.”

Legolas stared at him silently for a long time, and even in the moon’s pale light his eyes seemed to glow brightly blue. “Then you are uncommonly wise as well as loyal, Master Heledir,” he said at last. “For you understand why my people regard your passage from this world as a unique blessing.”

The elf rose to his feet once more, and stepped back a little.

“I would rest a while here,” he said, “and let the sea calm my thoughts. Will it trouble you if I stay?”

Heledir thought for a moment before replying. “No, indeed, sire. I find that your company soothes me greatly.” He was astonished, both by the truth of his words, and by his own boldness in saying them. Never had he known himself to be so forward. 

So the elf settled himself cross-legged on the shingle, and gazed out across the dark water. Heledir watched him for a while before turning his own face back to the horizon, and allowing his eyes to relax their focus. 

Too much had happened for him to comprehend straight away; he could not attempt to sort through it all at once. As his mind began clear once more, the confusion of thoughts fading slowly, he held on to only one certainty. After the strangeness of this night, he knew that nothing in his life would ever be quite the same again.


	9. Chapter 9

Merenin propped himself up on one elbow to look down at his lovely wife. Lelneth’s face was rosily flushed, and the sweet colour spread down her neck and across her firm, ample breasts. She lay unashamed with her arms behind her head, gazing up at him with a smile so full of lazy satisfaction, it could almost be described as smug.

“Do you know, my love,” she said, laughter in her voice, “I do not believe I shall ever tire of this.”

He ran a hand over the gentle swell of her belly, and watched her eyelids half close in response.

“You may be the death of me yet,” he replied, “but I shall certainly die a happy man.”

His hand strayed lower, fingers pushing through the tight curls of hair to the softer flesh, still hot and slippery with their mingled fluids. Watching Lelneth’s face intently, he slid two fingers inside her, while his thumb sought her clitoris with the unerring ease of long practice. She gasped, closing her eyes and raising her knees slightly, losing herself in the irresistible rhythm of his touch.

“Open your eyes, sweetheart,” he said after a while, when her quickened breathing and the movement of her hips told him of her approaching climax, “and look at me.”

Her eyes opened slowly, and then wider still, as she came for the third time that morning, moaning and shuddering under her husband’s hand.

He slid his arm out from beneath him to lie full length at her side as she calmed. He kissed the soft skin of her shoulder, and blew gently over the dampness left by his mouth, watching at close range as the downy hairs rose on end. His heart ached with love for her.

“They would have to lay me to rest in a wooden box, before I could tire of you,” he whispered.

A little later he rose and called for warm water, before walking to the west-facing window. 

“Another glorious day, love. Shall we ride out?” he asked.

“Perhaps. What are your father’s plans?” she responded.

“Oh, he will hear petitions all morning, and probably much of the afternoon. Half of Belfalas has chosen this week to seek his judgement and favour; I rather think their real purpose is to catch sight of the famous elven warrior.”

“Then we should ask Prince Legolas to ride with us. He will find little pleasure here under the circumstances, and would probably welcome the chance to escape the castle walls.” 

Merenin turned to his wife and studied her expression of assumed innocence. 

“In truth, I think you simply seek to enjoy his company yourself,” he said, teasingly.

“And would it prove such an onerous burden to you?” she asked, an arch smile on her lips.

This was not a line of questioning that Merenin wished to pursue, so he promptly changed the subject. “What about Celaeren?”

“What about him? I doubt very much that he would choose to come with us, even if you decided to ask him.”

“He can be charming enough.”

“Aye,” she said dryly, “so long as we ride out before lunch.”

She must have read his feelings on his face, for she softened almost immediately.

“I am sorry. He is your brother, and you love him. I understand that,” she said. “But I grow so tired of watching you and your father worrying about him, and trying to appease him, only to be disappointed every time.”

“I know, Lelneth. But what can we do? We can not give up on him because of this . . . this sickness he suffers from.” He turned back to the window and stared out despondently.

Lelneth’s soft footsteps crossed the floor quickly, and her arms pushed beneath his to meet around his chest. He leaned back slightly into the comforting warmth of her naked body against his, and sighed.

“Courage, husband,” she murmured. “I do not believe, even now, that it is a sickness beyond cure.”

Merenin shut his eyes and allowed himself to relax in his wife’s loving embrace for a moment, until the servant’s knock drew them apart once more.

The Great Hall was nearly empty by the time the couple descended to break their fast. Belgan informed Merenin that Prince Imrahil and his elven guest had already eaten, in a tone of such politeness that it could only indicate disapproval, although Merenin could not be sure whether he or his father were its object. Lelneth, when questioned, had no doubts about the matter.

“Your father, of course. Apart from Ancened and Celaeren, Belgan is the only one in the castle who has not been totally won over by Prince Legolas; and you know that in his eyes you can do no wrong.”

Celaeren, it seemed, had not appeared at the table. Merenin knew that this was not at all unusual, as his brother rarely ate before midday. Quite likely he was already in the training yard, punishing himself for last night’s excesses and swearing never to drink again. Merenin resolved to find him straight away after breakfast, and invite him to ride down the coast with them. He would seek out his brother and gauge his response, before deciding whether to approach the elf. Legolas would no doubt be easy to find, as he seemed to spend much of his time, when Imrahil was otherwise occupied, sitting on the beach and gazing silently out at the sea.

As he walked through the great courtyard towards the archway, Merenin could hear nothing to indicate that any training was in progress in the long walled space beyond. He was hardly surprised; in these days of peace the fair knights of Dol Amroth were happily settled on their rural estates, and the castle’s garrison had been reduced to a handful of guards, comfortable family men every one, who showed little inclination for such strenuous activity so soon after breakfast.

On the slim chance that he might yet find his brother, perhaps pausing to clean his sword or taking a swig from a skin of water, Merenin passed into the shade of the wide stone arch. Before he could emerge into the sun once more, he stopped short in astonishment. Celaeren was nowhere to be seen, but the yard was not deserted.

Prince Legolas crouched with his back to Merenin, hands moving swiftly about his work as he trimmed and fletched a long, silver-tipped arrow. A smallish bow lay on the ground beside him, and his quiver stood alongside. The elf was dressed in hunting leathers, green and brown, and his hair was pulled into braids and tied at the back of his head. As Merenin watched, he finished his task and dropped the arrow into the quiver, before leaping to his feet and slinging it across his shoulder, with the fluid confidence of one who has performed the same movement thousands of times before. 

‘Many thousands of times,’ the man reflected. 

Merenin could not bring himself to speak, to announce his presence, as the elf picked up his bow. He had yet to witness a demonstration of Legolas’s legendary battle skills, for to the best of his knowledge the elf had laid aside his weapons for the duration of his stay at the castle. It came to him with sudden certainty that there could be only one reason for him to take them up again now: Legolas would be leaving Dol Amroth soon.

Before he could fully examine his reaction to this revelation, Legolas began to shoot. Merenin gazed in stupefied silence as the elf loosed arrow after arrow from the singing bow, following each with the next so quickly, the man could not properly follow his movements. There were four targets at the far end of the yard, and Legolas aimed a single arrow at each in turn, left to right and back again, until finally his quiver was empty and a cluster of gold-fletched shafts marked the centre of each red circle. 

The whole display had taken seconds.

As he watched Legolas cross the yard to collect his arrows, moving with his habitual feline grace, Merenin realised that he was holding his breath and that his skin was tingling. A curious feeling of queasy excitement rose in him. 

‘I should not be watching this.’ The thought entered his mind and stayed there, as his heart began to beat far louder and faster than was right. He knew that the only course of action was to flee, to forget what he had seen and how the elf’s extraordinary speed and skill had stirred him, bringing undeniable confirmation of the suspicions of the last few days.

At the very moment when his body at last decided to obey his brain’s commands, and he turned to leave the yard, Legolas called his name and he knew he was lost.

“Prince Merenin.”

He spun round to see the elf walking towards him, a smile of welcome on his beautiful face.

“Prince Legolas, good morning,” Merenin said, then waited foolishly, since he did not know what else to say.

The elf stood a few feet away and regarded him calmly. “Do you come to train?” he enquired. “I would gladly fence with you a while, for your father assures me that your skill with the sword outstrips his own.”

“I am not sure if that is true,” replied Merenin, thinking fast.

The idea of entering into the strangely formal dance of swordplay with the graceful elf was enticing, to say the least; and for this very reason he knew he should back away. Yet he could hardly refuse Legolas’s suggestion without discourtesy to his father’s guest. 

“But I should be honoured to join you,” he finished.

Together they entered the small armourer’s store that led off the side of the yard, Merenin acutely conscious of the spare, elegant figure treading so lightly at his side. He tried to concentrate on the weapons, and chose a long, fine sword which he proffered, hilt first, to Legolas.

“It surprises me, that you choose to travel without your own,” he said, needing to break the silence.

“My bow and knives serve me well enough.” The elf smiled, and accepted the weapon with a slight nod, before taking it out into the sunlight to inspect its blade and make a few experimental swings. 

Merenin found one of his own swords, and grasped its familiar contours with relief. The weight of it in his hand comforted him, and focussed his mind on the challenge of meeting a swift and agile opponent, who would fight in unfamiliar style. Since boyhood Merenin had always excelled at swordplay above all other arts of combat; he determined that on this occasion he would retain his honour, come what may.

They began slowly, dancing around each other, each trying to find the measure of the other. It struck Merenin almost at once that they were of virtually the same height, but that his own shoulders were somewhat broader; the elf was undoubtedly quicker than him, but he may have the advantage of strength. He lunged, almost playfully, testing Legolas’s response. The parry came swiftly, as expected, but without undue force. Catching the elf’s eye, he realised that Legolas too was holding himself back. Merenin grinned, and saw the response on the other’s lips that signalled the start of a fight in earnest.

The speed and intensity of their contest increased, yet paradoxically each move, for Merenin, became clearer, held in its own distinct moment in time. He knew this feeling of old, the strange joy of combat, the narrowing of his concentration until nothing existed but himself, his opponent, and the clash of metal between them. There was a peculiar symmetry to their movements, a sinuous lightness to their dance, quite unlike the heavy-handed aggression of a bout with the men of the guards, with whom he usually trained.

If Legolas had not stopped the contest, Merenin could not have said how it would end, for the two were indeed well matched. The elf lifted his blade and stepped back with a small motion of his head to signal a pause. Merenin dropped his sword-arm to his side and nodded, unable to keep the smile from his face. He was breathing hard, and his blood pulsed rich with life.

“Your father spoke the truth,” said Legolas, evenly, as if he had known no exertion. “You are a fine swordsman. And strange, for you fight like an elf, and yet not so. It is long since I have had the pleasure of meeting such an opponent.”

“The pleasure, and honour, is mine,” replied the man, as courtesy demanded.

They smiled at each other for a second, but then the elf’s eyes looked over Merenin’s shoulder, and the blond head bowed slightly.

“Good morning, Prince Celaeren,” Legolas said.

Merenin turned to find his brother leaning on the stone of the archway, watching the two of them with an unfathomable expression. 

“Celaeren, good morning,” he echoed the elf, trying not to feel disappointed.

Celaeren walked slowly towards them. 

“Good morning Merenin. Prince Legolas.” His voice was cool, non-committal. “My brother is still standing, I see. Did he acquit himself well?”

“Well, indeed,” Legolas replied, equally smoothly. “I would not wish to have Prince Merenin as an enemy.”

“A great compliment, coming from such a warrior as yourself.” 

Something in his brother’s tone made it clear that this was not the simple courtesy it appeared to be. Suddenly tense, Merenin placed his sword on the stone bench by the armoury door, and turned to Celaeren. Legolas likewise laid his sword down, and stood at Merenin’s side.

As Celaeren approached, he did not look at his brother at all, but stared openly at the elf. From the corner of his eye Merenin could see that Legolas appeared quite unconcerned, although a knot of anxiety was growing in his own chest, as the moment drew on.

Standing before the elf, Celaeren spoke. “Perhaps you would do me the honour, Prince Legolas, of allowing me to prove myself as my brother has done.” The words were harmless enough, but Merenin could sense the danger behind them.

“You would fence with me?” Legolas asked. 

“Nay, I am no master with the sword. My skill is in unarmed combat.” 

For a moment there was silence; and Merenin’s mind raced. That Celaeren should challenge Legolas thus was not beyond the bounds of courtesy, as they stood in the training ground and Merenin was there to see fair play. However, he knew that his brother’s request came not from a simple desire to prove himself, in good spirit, against a famous warrior. Behind his suggestion lurked a well of emotion, resentment and envy at least. Merenin could not be sure what other feelings his brother harboured towards the elf, since he had not attempted to discuss the matter with Celaeren, knowing too well how difficult the conversation might turn out to be.

“Will you accept my challenge?” Celaeren’s tone was lighter now, almost insolent. The implication was clear; it would be hard for Legolas to refuse with honour. Yet refuse he did.

“I would prefer not to do so.” The elf spoke quietly, no trace of emotion in his voice.

“May I ask why? Is such a lowly diversion beneath the dignity of your people?” 

Merenin opened his mouth to speak at this, but stopped and shut it again when Legolas half turned and looked at him. If the elf had spoken the words, his command could not have been clearer. 

Turning back to Celaeren, the elf said, “Not by any means; I myself enjoy the sport. Yet I sense that sport is not what you seek with me, and I would rather you spoke your mind.”

There was a long silence. Merenin noticed his brother’s hands form fists at his sides. He badly wanted to intervene, but somehow, it seemed that he was frozen on the spot.

“And if I force the issue, what then?” Celaeren’s voice was icy.

This was too much. “Celaeren! You cannot…” Merenin stepped towards his brother, but Legolas’s hand on his shoulder stopped him once again.

“Forgive me, Prince Merenin. I believe it is me your brother wishes to speak to.” The elf spoke gently, and his hand applied the faintest of pressure. Even in the anxiety of the moment warmth flooded through Merenin at the touch. Stunned, he found he could not demur when Legolas said, “Please, sit, and let us finish this.”

He sank down slowly onto the stone bench and watched as Celaeren and Legolas faced each other, the elf staring unblinkingly into his brother’s eyes. 

“Well?” said Celaeren.

“I do not advise it,” Legolas said, mildly.

In a sudden flash of movement Celaeren’s fist came up and swung at Legolas’s jaw. But the connection was never made, for the elf moved faster still, and held the man’s wrist firmly, a few inches from his face. The bright blue eyes did not stray from Celaeren’s for an instant.

“It is no solution.” Oddly, the elf’s tone now seemed almost kindly. 

After a long pause, Merenin saw his brother’s body relax, and his arm became limp in the elf’s grasp. Still holding on, Legolas allowed Celaeren’s arm to fall; even then he did not remove his hand, but left his fingers loosely linked around the man’s wrist. Celaeren stood as if mesmerised for a moment, then shook his head. 

“Do you ever tire of being so damned perfect?” he said angrily.

Unexpectedly, the elf laughed, a genuine sound of amusement, dispelling some of the tension of the moment. “If you come to Ithilien,” he said, “I shall introduce you to my friend the dwarf. He will have much to say of the perfection of elves.”

Celaeren was not to be mollified so easily, but when he spoke his voice seemed weary. 

“Why did you come here?” he asked.

He seemed not to notice that Legolas still held his wrist. Merenin, on the other hand, could not forget it; his eyes drawn time and again to the sight, as he wondered what it would feel like to have the elf’s fingers resting thus on his own skin.

“To look at the sea, and to visit a friend,” Legolas said, without rancour.

“A friend? You speak lightly of my father, while you toy with his affections, before returning to your own kind. Is it a passing whim for you? To spend a moment of time with a mortal man, filling his head with dreams of eternity, knowing that he will die and you will not?” 

Celaeren finally dropped his head, tearing his eyes away from the elf’s unflinching gaze.

“Is that the root of your anger?” Legolas replied softly, his voice so full of anguish that Merenin knew even Celaeren must hear it, and know it to be real. “You think that I do not care, and that death does not touch me? You understand so little of my heart. And yet I will admit that I do not understand you. You fear your mortal end so terribly, but you turn away from life, filling your soul with bitterness and sorrow, pushing away those who love you and seeking out your own destruction daily. How can that be a solution to your pain?”

All the fire seemed to have gone from his brother as he slowly raised his head again to look at Legolas. “What solution is there? Tell me, Elf.” His voice was little more than a whisper. Merenin felt a draining sadness pass through him at his brother’s words, which held no hint of mockery now. He watched as the elf moved his hand, sliding it up from his brother’s wrist to grip the flesh of his lower arm gently.

“I do not know, Celaeren,” he said, “But I do know this. All your anger, all your hurt, will not bring your mother back; nor will it change the circumstances of your life. Is it not time to let it go? If a solution exists, it is inside yourself, and it is there you must seek; yet you have no need to feel that you are alone. Do not be afraid to turn to those who would help you in your quest.”

Merenin could not say how long the silence lasted. His brother and Legolas stood quite unmoving, eyes still locked together. That something strange was happening between them he had no doubt; what it was, he could not begin to imagine. He sat miserably on the bench, ashamed of his overwhelming desire to be the one so thoroughly at the centre of the elf’s attention. 

At last Legolas took his hand from Celaeren’s arm and stepped back with a sigh. It seemed that the spell was broken, for Celaeren shook his head again, turned away wordlessly, and stood looking up at the sky, running a hand through his hair.

Legolas looked at Merenin and smiled, but the man saw that his eyes were full of grief. He had no words to offer, so he waited for the elf to speak.

“I thank you for your indulgence this morning, Prince Merenin,” said Legolas, “and I hope it will not be the last time that we may draw our swords together. Now, by your leave . . .”

Merenin nodded, and sat silently watching as Legolas picked up his bow and quiver, turned, and left the yard without so much as a glance at Celaeren. 

He half expected his brother to follow the elf’s lead, and to leave him there without a word of explanation of what had passed. Celaeren’s sense of pride was strong, and it could not have been easy for him to have been bested by the elf in such a way. If, indeed, that was what had happened. Merenin quite honestly did not know.

To his surprise, Celaeren did not leave, but dropped to the bench beside him with a sigh. Merenin looked at his face and saw no anger there. If anything, his brother’s face wore a look of resignation. Tentatively, he reached out a hand and placed it on Celaeren’s arm, expecting a rebuff which did not come. Celaeren looked at him with a rueful smile.

“It is useless, is it not?” he said.

Merenin frowned, trying to decide on the meaning of his brother’s words.

“I want so much to hate him, but I cannot. It would be pointless, like hating the sea, or the sky. He is not what I thought.”

Merenin understood. “Indeed not. Yet he is here.”

“With Father,” Celaeren said. “How can this have happened?”

“I do not know,” said Merenin, and looked at his brother closely. “It truly disturbs you.”

“How can it not?” his brother replied. “It is hardly a natural state of affairs.”

“Do you refer to the fact that he is male, or the fact that he is not of our kind?” 

“I think it is the latter that worries me more,” Celaeren said. “We both know that love between men is not uncommon, though most would be more discreet.”

Merenin thought back to the day his father had arrived at the castle with his hair neatly braided, and nodded his agreement.

“There is a reason why our races have lived long apart. I can see naught but unhappiness coming of it in the long term,” Celaeren said. He paused, then added, “Yet I know the elf genuinely cares for Father, in some fashion.”

“You do?”

His brother spoke slowly, as if trying to make sense of the words himself. “I felt it, Merenin, do not ask me how. But I felt his affection for Father, and his grief at the thought of his passing. He mourns cousin Boromir still; and there were other things too, such sadness, I could not say what caused it all. And I had thought him impassive, unfeeling . . . ”

Merenin tried to absorb all this. “What happened here, Brother?” he said at last.

“How could I explain it? It was as you saw. I tried to hit him and he stopped me, and then he . . . touched me, somehow, and let me touch him, our spirits – I cannot make it clearer, for I do not know.”

“Did he speak in your mind? I have heard that elves can do that.”

“No, nothing so definite; it was more like a . . . a wash of feeling. All that pain, but joy, too; he is full of emotion, though he appears to be so cold.”

It had never occurred to Merenin to think Legolas cold, for he did not confuse the elf’s composure with a lack of feeling beneath. However he kept this to himself, happy that Celaeren was talking so openly to him. There was something about his brother’s manner that reminded him of the way they once used to be, before bitterness and grief had intruded on their happy relationship. He suddenly felt the need to share a confidence of his own.

“When I realised that Father and Legolas were . . . close, I could not accept it at first,” he said.

“Yet you are not unmoved by him, yourself.” It was a statement of fact, not a query. Merenin stared at his brother, shocked by his words.

“Oh come now,” said Celaeren. “I may be a drunkard, but I am not a complete fool, and I have known you all my life. Do you think I cannot see it?”

Merenin stared at the ground. “I will not lie to you, Brother,” he said unhappily. “I am shamed by my response to him. I would willingly die before doing anything to hurt or dishonour my wife.”

“I do not doubt it,” said Celaeren. “There is a clear boundary between unwanted feelings and deliberate action; you are not the one who lacks self control. And I do not think you need to be ashamed, for I am quite sure that three quarters of the men in the castle feel the same way.”

“But not you,” stated Merenin baldly.

“No, not me. He unnerves me, though I can see that he is extraordinarily fair.” His voice dropped and his face told of his concern as he went on, “Have you spoken to Lelneth of it?”

“How could I do so?” retorted Merenin, sharply.

“It may be for the best. I should not be surprised if she realises already, as there is little that passes her by. If that is so, you would be better to be honest. She is wise; she will not judge you.” 

They sat for a while, Celaeren wrapped in his own thoughts, Merenin reflecting on the truth of his brother’s words.

“It is well that the elf is leaving soon,” said Merenin at last, “even though Father will grieve at his parting. Were he to stay longer, I fear he would make fools of us all.”

“Aye, I believe you are right.” Celaeren smiled at him and Merenin made a rapid decision.

“Will you ride with me today, Celaeren?” he asked, “Just you and me, down the coast, as we did when we were young?” 

“I should be glad to do so, Brother.” The warmth in his voice matched that of his smile. “The stables, in half an hour?”

Merenin nodded, feeling a surge of hope in his breast. Lelneth would understand the sudden change in plans, he felt sure, although there was not time enough to explain it all to her now. He clasped his brother’s shoulder briefly as he stood, and took up the swords to return them to the store. When he came back out into the yard, he found Celaeren waiting for him, and they walked back through the archway side by side.


	10. Chapter 10

It had been a long afternoon. Imrahil had spent most of it trying hard to concentrate, as he faced a seemingly endless procession of petitioners seeking his judgement on matters of property and family rights. Whilst he normally welcomed the traditional public audience as a chance to feel close to his people, this session had been more than excessive. 

He had little doubt that a number of today’s claimants had come to the castle, in spite of the oppressive heat, largely in the hopes of catching a glimpse of Legolas. If that was the case, they must have left sorely disappointed; for the elf had not been seen since breakfast time, and had probably spent all day by the water.

Legolas’s absence from the audience chamber had not stopped Imrahil thinking about him, and not always at the most convenient moment. Indeed, Ancened had called the prince’s attention back to the matter at hand more than once, when scenes from his remarkably athletic encounter with the elf the previous night had suddenly flashed through his mind, rendering him near speechless, and his formal clothing unbearably tight and hot.

As the guards ushered the last of the good folk of Belfalas out of the chamber, Imrahil leaned back on the modest throne and let out a loud sigh of relief.

“By the Valar, Ancened,” he said, “I know not which of my forefathers decided that his people should have better access to the wisdom of their prince; but I wish he had kept his forward-thinking ideas to himself.”

“You would change the tradition of the last three centuries?” enquired the counsellor, looking up from the pile of scrolls he was sorting through and handing to Heledir.

“You know that I jest, Counsellor,” Imrahil replied. “I have no interest at this moment beyond getting out of these accursed robes and breathing some fresh sea air.” 

He wrinkled his nose in distaste as he rose from the gilded seat and headed for the door, nodding absently in response to Ancened’s bow as he passed. He might love his people in principle, but an assembly of such magnitude on a hot summer’s day was hardly a treat for the senses. He badly needed a bath, or, even better, a swim.

His mind full of the thought of cold water tumbling across his skin, he marched purposefully to his chamber, and pushed the door open without breaking his stride. Once inside the room, however, he stopped, his pulse starting to race at the deliciously unexpected sight before him.

Legolas lay on the bed, on his side and facing the door. He was totally, gloriously nude, his hair falling loose, and his skin gleaming so perfectly that Imrahil suspected he had been applying oil to it. Indeed, a faint scent of orange blossom hung in the air, bringing a smile to the man’s face. Neroli was known in Dol Amroth as a powerful aphrodisiac, but he hardly felt that his arousal needed encouragement under these circumstances.

“Ah, I judged that you would be finished about now,” said the elf, closing the book which lay artfully placed on the bed before him. “I await your pleasure.” He stretched, and lifted a hand to smooth back his hair, shamelessly shifting on the bed to display himself more fully.

Imrahil laughed, though the sound that emerged from his suddenly dry throat was more of a growl. He quickly bolted the door, then turned back to the vision on the bed.

“I do not know where to start,” he said, his eyes roaming hungrily over the naked elf.

“Then I suggest you begin by removing those ridiculous clothes,” Legolas said smoothly, “and letting me see what is mine.”

The prince almost had to sit down on hearing these words, so intense was the wave of lust that rushed through him. But he determined to play along, and grinned wickedly at the elf as he shrugged off his robe, before bending to remove his boots. 

“What would you have done,” he enquired conversationally, “if the door had been opened by Neledhen, not by me?”

“Given him the shock of his life?” suggested the elf.

Imrahil snorted, imagining the scene.

“No,” continued Legolas, “I would have hidden under the bed, I think. I recognise the sound of your footsteps, after all.”

The prince kicked his boots across the room and straightened, to find the elf’s eyes upon him, wide with amused desire. As he started to unlace his shirt, Legolas very deliberately slid his hand down over his own chest and belly to his cock, which was already erect and glistening with oil. The elf began to stroke himself gently, with slow, lazy movements up and down the whole delectable length, and Imrahil’s fingers stopped moving of their own accord.

“Well,” said Legolas teasingly, “Do you plan to join me sometime today?” His hand continued its caresses, and his eyes remained fixed on Imrahil, who thought he might pass out with need. 

Finally regaining some fraction of his senses, the man tore his shirt off over his head, and started on the fastenings of his leggings. A seam gave way as he shoved them down, half undone, in his haste, then he threw them aside in the wake of his boots and turned once more to the bed.

“Ah,” sighed the elf, “Now that is a sight worth seeing. Look at yourself, Imrahil.”

The prince looked down at the damp, golden skin of his chest and at his cock, jutting out proud and solid below, as the silkily seductive voice continued:

“Smooth and sculpted, like an elf, yet tanned and broad-shouldered like a man; hard and eager for me, yet open and willing when I take my pleasure in you; is it any wonder that I want you so?”

“Stop!” said Imrahil, raising his eyes once more to the elf, who now lay with parted lips, his hand cupping and fondling his balls, his gaze unflinching upon the man. “Or I shall spill myself before we even begin.”

“Then spill yourself,” said Legolas, smiling, “but in my mouth, for I would taste you as I come.”

Imrahil groaned loudly, somehow getting himself to the bed and climbing upon it. He sat up on his knees, sliding one towards the elf, who dropped his head to rest upon the muscled thigh. Legolas’s hand worked harder now, pumping his own cock firmly as he took the man’s achingly full erection between his lips.

Imrahil did not even try to hold himself back, and indeed there would have been little point in doing so. With the elf’s hot mouth around him, sucking down his full length, he came almost at once, with spasms of delight that seemed to start in his spine and spread right through his body. He gasped for breath and fell forward, supporting himself on his arms as he watched Legolas reach his own peak. The elf tensed, suddenly stilling the rapid movements of his hand, and moaned around Imrahil’s cock as he too came, his semen spurting in great pulses across the sheets.

As Legolas rolled his head away and looked up at him, Imrahil could only stare down at the elf in astonishment.

“How do you do it?” he asked. “Every time, I think it cannot get any better, and then you prove me wrong.”

“I do not know, lover,” replied Legolas, “I can only think that your manly enthusiasm inspires me. Is it not delightful?”

“That is hardly an adequate description.” Imrahil gestured to Legolas to raise his head and shifted his leg out from underneath. Sliding down the bed, he brought his face in line with the elf’s and leaned in to kiss him, as Legolas slid a hand around behind his head to pull him closer. He tasted the salt of his own semen on Legolas’s tongue, and marvelled at the sensual thrill of it. Everything he did with Legolas, he reflected, seemed to lead on to ever greater rapture.

He pulled his head back to speak, and the elf’s fingers trailed gently down to stroke his cheek.

“I wish you did not have to go, lovely one,” Imrahil said, “but at least you will leave me with a feast of memories.” 

“Aye,” said Legolas, “And all the better for knowing that we shall both be finding pleasure in the same thoughts.”

Imrahil pondered this for a while, and shivered.

“Are you still set on leaving tomorrow?” he asked, quietly.

“It is time. My people will expect me, and parting will not be any less painful if we delay it a day or two more. Besides, I have stayed here long enough.” The elf’s voice was suddenly serious, and held a note of sadness.

Imrahil pushed himself up on one elbow so as to look down at his lover. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“I fear that my presence has caused enough difficulties,” Legolas said, with a slight laugh.

“Has something else happened today?” 

The elf had already told him of Heledir’s encounter with a group of thugs in a tavern, and they had spent some time discussing the attitudes behind it. Legolas had been insistent, however, that the prince should not question Heledir about his black eye too directly, saying that the shame would be enough to ruin the man. Imrahil had reluctantly agreed, though his instincts told him to hunt the attackers down, and bring them to justice for their cruel treatment of the loyal secretary.

Legolas looked at him for a moment, then sighed. “I met your sons in the training yard this morning.”

“My sons? Both of them? What happened?”

“Merenin and I fenced with each other. He is a very fine swordsman, as you had told me; I greatly enjoyed the bout. Then Celaeren arrived and challenged me. I declined to accept, and we . . . talked.”

There was clearly much more to the story than that, but Imrahil had already learned that Legolas would reveal as much or as little as he chose, and there was little point pressing for more. He waited.

“It was not an easy interview, and I would not have chosen to conduct it that way; but I was honest with him, and I believe he understood my viewpoint in the end.”

Imrahil narrowed his eyes, but Legolas shook his head almost imperceptibly. 

“Let him tell you himself, if he wishes to do so,” the elf said.

“It grieves me, that our time together cannot be more straightforward,” offered Imrahil.

“Aye. On my next visit, perhaps we should spend less time at the castle, and more time on the beach.” 

At these words, the man’s heart leapt, as the subject they had carefully avoided was now laid out before him.

“So . . . this is not the end of it?” he asked tentatively.

“Would you wish it to be so?” 

‘How like an elf,’ thought Imrahil, ‘to answer one question with another.’

“You know I would not,” he said.

“Then I do not see why this should be the end.”

They stared at each other for a while, then Legolas smiled, and pulled the prince down into his arms.

“If this is to be your last night,” Imrahil said a while later, as they lay entwined, “let us take a boat out, and sleep on the water, under the stars. The air will be warm, and there is little wind.”

He did not ask if the idea met with Legolas’s approval, for the elf’s smile told him all he needed to know.

So it was that after a rather subdued, early dinner, man and elf climbed down to the jetty on the castle’s northern side. The old boatman waiting there seemed unsurprised to see his prince at such an hour, and if the sight of the elf startled him, he gave no sign of it.

“I have always enjoyed night fishing,” Imrahil whispered to Legolas, as they climbed aboard and threw their packs down, “and I take this boat out often.”

The craft in question was a small rowing boat, since there was too little wind to fill a sail. Imrahil took the oars, and Legolas sat in the stern. The faint splash as the blades entered the water was the only sound in the still night, as they headed out to sea. Imrahil looked at the lights of his home as they dwindled to bright points in the distance, and wondered at the feeling of peace in his heart.

The fishing platform out in the bay had been there as long as Imrahil could remember, and many a time he had moored his boat alongside. Every year, after the winter storms, he sent men out to repair the structure; but the worn wooden boards on top were little changed since those nights when he had sat, an eager boy, listening in rapt excitement to his father’s tales of the sea. He had slept there, too, on sultry late summer nights when the stifling heat and the biting insects had driven him from the castle; and as children his own sons had lain at his side, laughing and talking with him in the moonlight.

They made the boat fast and climbed onto the platform, feeling it roll and sway on the gentle swell. Legolas unrolled the mats and blankets, while Imrahil dug in his pack for the oil lamp and tinderbox, the bottle and glasses. 

He lit the lamp, saying somewhat apologetically, “I would see your face, for a while at least.”

Legolas arranged himself cross-legged on the blankets as the man opened the bottle and poured them each a draught of the fragrant white wine. He sank down beside the elf and their glasses touched.

“To friendship,” said Legolas.

“Friendship.” 

They sat and gazed out over the vastness of the water, calm and black under the stars.

“Tell me of the sea, Legolas,” said Imrahil at last. “I know it speaks to you; what does it say?”

“It overwhelms me,” said the elf simply. “Nothing could have prepared me for it. I feel its rush and murmur in my ears every waking moment. Even in my dreams I hear it. It speaks of the West, and more besides, singing to me a song of the inevitability of my fate, the enormity of Iluvatar’s creation, the utter insignificance of my pain. It is more beautiful than anything I have seen, more terrifying than anything I have known. I could lose myself in it.”

“Was that what worried you, what kept you away, the fear of losing yourself?” Imrahil remembered vividly the elf’s words on that first night, although it seemed such a long time ago, part of another life entirely.

“In truth,” said Legolas slowly, “I believed that once I had come to know the sea, I might never find the courage to leave it, and would have no choice but to sail or to submerge myself in its depths. That is why I could not come alone; I needed someone beside me, to draw on the strength of his spirit, should mine fail me at the crucial moment. I presumed much, to ask that of you.”

“No, do not say that. But how does it feel, now that you must go?” asked the man, reaching out to take the elf’s hand gently in his.

Legolas looked at him, his face deeply shadowed in the lamplight. “It is not easy to leave what I have found here, and return to the longing and grief that has been so diminished these last few weeks,” he said.

Imrahil thought for a while about these words, and all that they might mean. The moment he had been waiting for seemed to have arrived; it was time to bare his soul. He held the elf’s hand a little tighter when he finally spoke, each word sounding out clearly in the still night air.

“I have thought long and hard about saying this, for I am not sure that it is what you want to hear. Yet I would not keep the truth from you, my friend. I love you, Legolas; I cannot pretend otherwise.”

“Imrahil.” The hand in his returned the pressure of his fingers, while the elf raised the other to stroke the man’s cheek. Imrahil turned his face into the touch, shutting his eyes as he pressed a kiss to Legolas’s palm.

“You know my circumstances,” said the elf, softly, and with sorrow in his voice, “and that my heart is not free. Yet such love as I have to give is yours, and I give it willingly.”

Legolas removed his hand from Imrahil’s face and replaced it with his mouth, shifting silently from his cross-legged pose to kneel at the man’s side. The kiss was long and deep, and Imrahil found himself clutching at his lover’s body as they swayed together with the gentle motion of the sea, lost in the bliss of the moment.

“I understand, more than you might think,” said Imrahil, when at last they broke apart. “I gave my heart to Glantathar when I was little more than a child, but the pledge was no less real for that. I love you now, but I love her no less because of it, and I will miss her until the day I die.”

“I know it,” replied the elf, combing the hair back from Imrahil’s face with his fingers, the gesture of affection that the man loved so much. “And I sensed that you would understand. It was one of the reasons why I came here to you.” 

Imrahil raised an eyebrow, and Legolas continued: “Yes, I will admit, I did not tell you all of it, when you asked why I chose you. Does it surprise you that I kept something back?” The familiar lilt of laughter was there once more in his voice. “Can you have forgotten that I am an elf?”

“No, indeed,” Imrahil said, wrapping his arms around the slender body and falling back to the blankets, pulling Legolas down on top of him. “No man could ever be so . . . tantalising.” 

“I am not so sure,” said the elf, adjusting his position until he lay full length on Imrahil, his arms resting on the blankets to either side of him, his face inches away from the man’s eyes. “It is a word I could well use to describe you. Then again,” he moved slightly, bringing his groin into more substantial contact with the man’s, “you do have elven blood.”

“And I imagine that is the only thing keeping me alive, in spite of your efforts to ruin me,” growled Imrahil, his hands grabbing the elf’s hips as his own pushed up to meet them.

They kissed hungrily, bodies pressed together, each as hard as the other in his need. Imrahil felt the desire flood through him, and knew that he would come from the pleasure of the fully-clothed embrace, if he did not hold himself back. Such a wondrous effect the elf had on him; he had not known his body to be so eager since the far off days of his youth.

The man was breathing heavily when he lifted the elf’s face from his own with both hands. “Legolas, my love,” he said, feeling his heart swell as he spoke the words for the first time. “There is something I would ask of you.”

“Ask what you will; I am yours to command,” Legolas whispered, his voice fragile with lust.

Imrahil closed his eyes, willing himself to stay calm, for he had long considered this request. “Would you let me share your feelings, as you did that first time?” he asked.

“Are you sure that is what you want?” replied the elf. “You may feel more than you would wish.”

“It would mean much to me,” said Imrahil, quietly.

Legolas looked at him for a moment, and then nodded slightly. He pushed himself up on his arms and moved away from the prince, who watched curiously. As soon as he realised that the elf merely meant to take off his clothes, he sat up to do the same. 

They stared at each other, and did not speak, as shirts and leggings were pulled off and laid to one side. This was no slow, teasing game; they moved with common purpose towards a more important end. 

Before long they lay on their sides beneath the blankets, face to face. 

“I love you, Legolas.” Saying the words, after waiting so long, sent a strange thrill through Imrahil. 

“My prince,” replied the elf, and moved to kiss him.

It was gentle at first, a slowly building knowledge of desire distinct from his own. He was vaguely aware of Legolas’s hand on him, moving down his chest, caressing his nipple and causing a flash of pleasure to pass through him. He slid his own hand down to bury it between the elf’s thighs, stroking first the smooth sac, then questing behind it for the tight, hidden opening. 

Suddenly, Legolas tensed, and pulled his mouth away. “Imrahil,” he said, with sorrow in his voice, “Please forgive me; there are some things I cannot give you. But perhaps this - ” 

The elf wrapped his fingers around Imrahil’s cock, and began stroking him steadily, rhythmically. The man, understanding at once that there must be some acts too raw, too sacred, for Legolas to share with any but his true love, drew his hand back and closed it around the elf’s erection, mirroring his lover’s movements. The pain of his realisation was soon forgotten, as they kissed again, urgently this time, and the feelings coursing through him from the elf increased in intensity: a surge of sweet affection laced with sadness; the deeper grief a mere murmur, yet unmistakeable; and something else –

Underlying, overlaying all the other emotion he felt it, the swelling, rushing, restless force, washing over him, drawing back then flooding his veins once more. Again and again it filled him, wave after wave of frightening power, overwhelming his senses, submerging his very soul with its swirling promise of oblivion. It was unstoppable; in spite of the panic welling up in him, he was unable to move, to cry out, to pull away from the elf’s demanding mouth.

Imrahil’s mind began to blur as rational thought deserted him, leaving him only the knowledge that he was lost, utterly consumed by the dreadful maelstrom of sensation. His heart hammered painfully, and the roar in his ears threatened to deafen him, as at last the end approached. The grey eyes opened wide, staring into the elf’s in terrified ecstasy, as he came; crushing, rolling waves of pleasure passing through him, the last shreds of his consciousness ebbing away in their wake.

He woke to find the warm body pressed close to his, the elf stroking his back and murmuring soothing words into his ear, words he vaguely recognised, but could not understand.

“Legolas,” he said.

“Imrahil.” The elf pulled his head back to look at him, anxiety clearly visible in his eyes in the faint light of the lamp. “I am so sorry.”

The man did not speak, but lay bemused in Legolas’s embrace.

“It was too much for me, and I lost control of it,” the elf whispered.

“The sea,” said Imrahil, at last.

“Yes.”

His breathing was returning to normal, and his mind was clearing, remembering.

“Gods, Legolas, how do you live with it?” Intoxicating as the feelings had been, he would not wish for that experience again in a hurry.

“It is not like that all the time,” said the elf, “That was a combination of things, I think; you, and me, and being here . . .”

“Still, I understand why you warned me.” He blinked, and wriggled his arm free from its place crushed between their bodies, moving it to his lover’s hip. “I am afraid I did nothing to satisfy you; I was too lost . . .”

“Nay, my prince,” Legolas replied. “You took me with you. I was inside your feelings, as you were inside mine, and it was wonderful.” 

“Incredible, though I think I came close to dying of it,” said Imrahil, pulling the elf closer.

It was not long before the man shut his eyes, and gave in to the weariness dragging him down into sleep.

The sun was nearly over the mountain when he woke once more, to see Legolas standing at the platform’s edge, staring out across the water. 

“Imrahil, look at this!” the elf said.

The prince yawned widely, and pushed himself up to a sitting position, screwing up his eyes to see what the elf was looking at.

There they were, a school of dolphins, leaping through the waves out in the deeper sea, where the sun already turned the water’s surface a shimmering, shifting gold. There were four, maybe five of them, twisting and circling, now leaping straight from the water, now curving in unison in and out of the waves, their sleek bodies gleaming in the morning light.

Legolas laughed, quite clearly entranced. “I have never seen such a thing,” he said. “Are they not playing?”

Imrahil staggered to his feet and went to stand at the elf’s side, adjusting his stance to the rocking motion of the platform in the lively breeze.

“Yes, they are playing,” he said, smiling at his lover. “Sometimes they come in close to the shore, and it is possible to swim amongst them.”

Legolas watched as the dolphins moved across the bay and out of sight behind the headland. Then he turned and looked at Imrahil with shining eyes. 

“What a wondrous sight, and so perfect on this day of all days.” His voice became serious, as he added, “I have been blessed, my friend, to have had this time here with you.”

Imrahil thought that his heart might burst as he took the elf in his arms. He was sure that Legolas had never looked so beautiful as at that moment, and it would not be possible to love him more.

Back at the castle they found Merenin and Lelneth breaking their fast at the long table, although the hour was quite late. Merenin seemed more attentive than ever towards his wife, and Imrahil smiled to himself as he wondered what new devilment Lelneth had employed to bewitch his son even further. She, of course, was bright and confident as always, casting occasional looks of fond amusement at her husband, as she laughed and talked with Legolas.

As if by common consent, neither of Imrahil’s sons, nor any of the castle staff, came to the gate to see Legolas depart. He had taken leave of Merenin and Lelneth in the Great Hall, and had spent a minute alone in the study with Heledir to say farewell. Celaeren was nowhere to be seen; so the elf had asked Imrahil to convey his regards to the youngest prince. 

When the moment arrived, they stood together in the courtyard, Legolas’s horse docile at his side.

Man and elf looked at each other for a long while.

“I suppose I should not expect you to visit,” said Imrahil at last, feeling awkward and unsure, “but be glad to see you when you arrive.”

Legolas surprised him yet again by bursting into musical laughter.

“I know there are those of my kin who work hard to appear mysterious,” he said, “but this elf, at least, has mastered the skill of letter writing.”

“You will write to me?” Imrahil could not keep the glee from his voice.

“Of course! It should not be too difficult to organise, for does your nephew Faramir not send a regular messenger to you?”

Imrahil felt his spirits lift at the words, even as Legolas slung his bow and pack across his shoulder. 

“We could stand here all day,” said the elf, “and it will become no easier. So I say to you, farewell, my prince of men, until we meet again.” 

He moved towards Imrahil, and clasped his shoulder with a firm grip. But the man cared not whose eyes were watching from the castle’s windows; he stepped closer still and embraced the elf warmly.

“Farewell, my love,” he said.

Imrahil stood alone and watched the elf, as he rode down the long avenue. Before he reached the city gates, Legolas turned, his golden hair glinting in the sun, and raised an arm in salute. Then he passed through the great arch, and was gone. 

It seemed to Imrahil that part of his soul went with the elf, for the wrenching ache in his breast threatened to wind him. The joy and excitement of the past weeks, of finding love again, when he had all but given up on his own ability to be happy, drained from him. He stood bereft, empty of all emotion save his dragging sense of loss.

For a long moment the man did not move, staring after his lover, and wondering desperately how long he must wait before they could be together again. But after a while he lifted his head and gazed up at the sky, feeling the sun on his face and the fresh sea breeze in his hair, and at last he sensed his strength returning to him. Finally he turned on his heel to look up at the great stone building, the symbol of all that he had long found burdensome. 

And then, to his own amazement, he laughed, thinking of the elf who would never cease to surprise him, and who had given him more than he could have believed possible. For although he felt grief at his lover’s departure, he could not deny that his life had changed; and somehow he knew that he would not sink into despair again. In spite of it all, he smiled at the thought of Legolas’s parting words, and wondered what delights the elf’s letters might bring. 

Pain there was in his heart as he walked towards the castle, and back to the reality of his life; but alongside it there was something new. For the first time in many years, Prince Imrahil remembered what it was to feel hope.


End file.
